Claymore: The Journey Continues
by Gruto
Summary: A fic based in the anime universe. Things may or may not match up exactly as they do in the manga universe, as this takes place several years after the end of the anime. My interpretation of how the events unfold.
1. The Journey Continues

**Author's Note: I do not own Claymore. Now that that is out of the way, can you gues which movie I quote? I'll have you all know that I do not own that material either. In the coming chapters, there **_**will **_**be action, not to worry, lol! Uplifting comments will keep me going.**

"Heh, call me strange, but I wonder if we'll be put into songs or tales, y'know like the great ones of old," Raki said, his mind wandering as they had been traveling for a long space. Weeks had passed since the last village, and the journey had been slow at best. Despite that, however, the conversations Clare and her charge (who had become very capable) had become more and more involved, perhaps to take up time. But then, it felt as though they were, if slowly, growing closer.

Was it him, or had the corners of his lady's mouth up-turned in the slightest of grins? He had been noticing that more and more (or thought he had), and if it was indeed the case, it would be a delight. She almost never smiled, much less grinned, always so grim-faced; somewhat sad, even.

He continued. "I wonder if children will say, 'I want to hear the story about Miss Clare and her epic journey."

She surprised him then. "You're leaving out one of the instrumental characters: Raki the Brave. I want to hear more about him." He turned to see those mysterious silver eyes gazing at him. "For without him," she said, the monotone never wavering, "she would have likely died too soon."

Long moments of silence passed between them. "C'mon, Clare, I wasn't joking."

Clare's initially incomprehensible gaze then betrayed her fondness of him. That struck him to the core. "Neither was I, Raki."

Their journey lead them to a wide plain (as they had been traveling through woodlands prior) that stretched for miles and miles. Raki left mometarily to relieve himself, and upon returning, found Clare resting against her claymore. Her mood seemed to be that of contemplation; he could not tell. Clare was not easy to read, even for a Claymore.

As his usual pattern was when he saw her like that, he plunged his own sword into the ground, sat down and leaned against it, mimicing her as in times past.

Again, long moments of silence passed between them. Clare risked a glance his way. She could not help but note the growth that had taken place in her once young charge. He had become strong, as to the strength of men, and more. He could face yoma and weak Awakened beings alike without a problem. Indeed, he had lived up to Galk's command to become strong enough to protect her. She often felt, against all her trained control, that she was, in fact, the protected.

He had grown into a rather handsome man, comely in stature, and quick in the wits. There was little Clare could do against the odd, warm tingling sensation she felt whenever he flashed his sly grin, or even touched her, even just to get her attention. Sometimes, it was almost maddening.

She almost jumped when he tapped her shoulder. How could it be that such a simple act could cause her to react so? Of note also was the frequency at which it was happening. More and more, she was becoming endeared to that touch.

An exponential display of control, however, Clare merely glanced his direction, a questioning look in her eye.

Raki looked unusually serious. His eyes betrayed a yearning that could possibly spell danger. Nonetheless, Clare did not waver in her attention.

"I've been meaning to tell you..." His eyes went ground-ward, his face flushed all of a sudden. What was he about?

"Yes? Out with it," Clare commanded calmly.

"You are..." He flushed a deeper red, and let out a deep sigh. "You're a great example, Clare. I'm pretty sure that sounds strange coming from me..." When she said nothing, he continued. "Because of our...uh...companionship, I've learned a great deal about trust and all that."

He was silent, likely gathering his thoughts. Nonetheless, Clare urged him onward. His words had piqued her interest.

"Go on."

"Oh, uhh, and, well, I'm..." As his eyes had been to the ground, they arose to find her staring directly at him. Those eyes, those mysterious, beautiful, _intoxicating _silver eyes, met his, and his heart pounded within his breast.

"I'm rather fond of you."

Again, he swore he saw the corners of her mouth lift the slightest. As soon as he thought he saw it, her face was once again the grim, expressionless visage it always had been to date. Well, except for those small moments.

"Fond of me..." she mused, her gaze leaving Raki and looking somewhere far off ahead of them. "And what, might I ask is there to be fond of, aside from my apparent example?" Strange. She did not anticipate asking such a thing.

Raki found it hard to respond, then, and so chose his words carefully. "I don't know about you, but when it comes to your kind, it seems that there's this...wall, and it's almost somewhat intentional."

His lady raised an eyebrow. "I don't quite follow your meaning."

"Yet," he assured. "That wall seems to bar - or protect, one of the two - your..." He couldn't quite grasp the word, though it was on the tip of his tongue. That flaw of his annoyed him beyond anything.

Waving his hand in a circular motion, trying hard to think of the word, Clare caught on. "Humanity?"

"_Yes, _thank you. Your humanity." How grateful he was for her intuition. "You, though, seem to show, mmm, a little...more? than most others I've encountered."

She hugged her knees to herself. "And what makes you think that?"

"Well, you took me in when you could've chosen not to, and instead of leaving me in some village, you kept me with you; you saved my life countless times; heh, even kissed me;" at that, slight coloration spotted the Claymore's cheeks, "promised to meet again after leaving, and did. It's gotta be more than just obligation that drove you."

"Perhaps," she mused, distant. "But then, there's not much you know about my kind, not unless you _are _one of us." She seemed to consider something. "At the same time though, we _have _been together for quite some time."

"Yes," Raki replied, "and due to that I've gotten to know you well. More so than any other full human can say, I wager."

"Why me, then? There are plenty of other women out there - _much _more worthy consorts than I could be, if that is what you seek from me." She didn't quite understand why she had said that. It seemed to have just...spilled out.

Her words had a profound effect. Raki was taken aback. Eyes turning ground-ward once again, silence emitted from the young man for several long moments. Clare feared inwardly that she had upset him. His next statement proved her wrong.

Still fixated on the dirt, Raki spoke. "If I went with any of those others, I wouldn't know the comfort and solace I feel when I'm with you. That's all there is to it: I'm seriously at peace when you're near. I mean, I feel like I can take on the world!"

A pause. "You've done much for me, like I said." Patting her forearm gently, he spoke again. "Don't know what it would take to repay you."

That sensation, the warm, tingling that spread throughout all facets of her being returned at that touch. Just like all the other times, but this one was intensified one hundredfold. Never thinking in the least that anyone would have such a profound effect - not even Teresa - Clare was beginning to think the title of "Big Sister" he had given her seven years prior was waning.

"There is nothing to repay. It is _I _who owes the debt, Raki. I just wish there was a better way to pay it than dragging you aimlessly along on my selfish journeys." Her expression became distant as she once again faced the distant horizon.

"I don't consider that a burden, if that's your meaning," came the dismissive reply accompanied by a slight wave of the hand. "If anything, it's an adventure, y'know? And I would share it with no one else."

Silence a moment, then, "You are too kind, Raki."

"Don't mention it. I just try hard."

"Indeed." Gazing once more at the young man, Clare spoke, saying, "You ought to sleep. I'm sure you'll need it in the coming days." Though it was obviously subdued, her care for her charge was did not go unnoticed by all who saw her, and the way she treated Raki. The way she looked at him, expressionless visage aside; the way she handled him; the way, even, that she addressed and spoke to him; it was clear to so many others. What, then, had she to hide?

_Everything, _came the inward thought. If she loved him, or expressed any love, she feared that her adversaries would latch onto that, using it as a way to get to both of them. At the same time, however... How she wished to tell Raki of these newfound feelings, feelings he had awakened. Only he could have done so.

"You're right," said he. "I'll turn in for now." A pause, then, "you ought to rest too, Clare. Can't have my fearless leader tired." Again, that sly grin. This time, Clare could not help herself. She returned it with a distinct one of her own. It was faint, but it was there, clear as day. Raki smiled the wider, and emptied his pack of bedding.

When all was set out, he peeled off his armor. Clare basked in a moment of pride: the overall weak boy that she once knew was now strong enough to kill most _yoma _and weak Awakened beings. His growth made her heart swell.

She shut her eyes as he did his, and let herself rest. Gods knew she needed it.


	2. A Rude Awakening

**A/N: I was listening to "Molossus" (off of the "Batman Begins" OST) on repeat as I wrote this. X3 Pardon any errors. I typed it on my smartphone.**

_"Raki, awake! The enemy is upon us!" _He bolted upright, his hand going to his broad sword. He gripped it like iron, not letting go, as he shot to his feet, taking on a fighting stance. There was no way the Organization would take him or Clare, not while he drew breath.

"Behind you, to your left!" shouted his lady. Whirling abruptly, he met silver eyes and a wicked claymore. The first blow was a hard downward strike, causing a great rift where Raki had stood poised a moment ago. This one did not relent. A sideswipe to the right which he parried, followed too closely by a left diagonal-upward arc. Ducking underneath that, he made his own strike, a right sideswipe meant to take off the Claymore's legs below the knees. But she was better than that, recovering from her previous blow too quick, bringing her sword in to block his attack easily.

"Silly man, it is foolish to resist," his attacker said, a wicked grin crossing her face. Clare was facing another, and struggling. Her opponent's appearance was no less imposing: long, shoulder-length wavy hair, pale skin; there seemed an air about that one of control that even Raki could pick out, and that was unnerving to the young man. Clare was definitely hard pressed to keep up with that one. He, however, did not have time to worry about his lady. At the moment, he had his own threats to tend to.

"I thought that your lot couldn't attack humans!" he shouted as she came in with another series of attacks. For some reason, he felt as though she was going easy on him, for that very reason. That bothered him something else. Either she was one of the higher ranks, or she was just arrogant.

Again, that sinister grin, the knell of death or other murderous things, then, "No, you are correct. But who's to stop me from wounding the assistant of a traitor?" A high right sideswipe meant to take his head off, followed immediately by a left diagonal-downward arc. Raki barely managed to parry those two, but was unsuccessful in the third, fourth, and fifth techniques. First, an ultra fast dash past him, a slash to his right shoulder, immobilizing his sword arm. Then, behind him, a diagonal-downward left slash down the length of his back, causing a large, bloody gash to appear. The wound was not fatal, but it hurt hellishly, enough to make him cry out briefly. Eyes taking on the gold hue, the Claymore sprang forward. Raki's eyes widened a moment as his very life stood on a thread.

This warrior was definitely a higher rank, as she toted this special ability. Why she would drop to such a low, unfair level and use it on a human such as himself, Raki had no idea. Springing forward and up at the same time, she performed a literal corkscrew-like maneuver, her sword becoming a whirling blade of butchery.

Until she was knocked aside by something far too fast to imagine. _What the...? _He saw something that resembled Clare: a monstrous face, legs that looked for all the world like those on a horse, but made of steel or iron. She was incredibly fast, too fast. Sword in hand, she faced his attacker head-on, and did not relent.

The other woman recovered from the blow as quickly as it had happened. _She's a fool if she thinks she can face Clare alone. With that Quick Sword, she'll be nothing more than mincemeat. _Raki was ever confident in his lady's abilities. Clare, indeed, was faring well. Both the other Claymores were now facing her, and she was not giving in the least. She was quite nearly some demon goddess from some nightmare.

The wavy-haired one rushed her from behind, the other from her right. Utilizing the Quick Sword, she kept them rather occupied, driving them both away. They were hard pressed to parry or dodge (much of which was unsuccessful), causing them instead to retreat. There was no way in this hellish world that Clare would let anyone near her charge, not while she stood.

Her speed was unmatched at this point. She lunged behind wavy-hair and sliced a diagonal gash across her back. That one cried out, and fell to her knees. Using the handle of her claymore, Clare, with a cry and a most mighty blow, knocked that one out cold. The other one, obviously not as high a rank as the other, maintained her fighting stance, determined to put an end to her adversary's life. Performing once again that corkscrew maneuver, she lunged at Clare. She, though, was the faster, and dodged out of the way of the powerful, flashy technique.

The other woman, however, was not finished. She came back with a left sideswipe meant to sever her opponent's head. Parrying that, Clare brought her weapon to bear, a diagonal-upward right slash, which the other dodged. She followed that with a far-too-speedy downward-slash. The other was not prepared in the least, apparently. Her sword arm, just above the elbow, fell useless to the ground with an audible _thunk. _

She screeched in pain, but only briefly before making a mad dash for the limb to find cover and reattach it. Blood was spilling from the open wound like a fountain. Clare, however, would have none of it. Hang this bloody witch's rank, she would not see the end of it! Being the faster of the two of them, she arrived at the other's goal before she could. She prepared to slice it to ribbons with the Quick Sword.

She never got the chance. Wavy-hair had regained consciousness, and utilized her ability to apparently control _yoki. _Before the arm the once belonged to Irene could awaken and perform, it stopped. Just stopped. Clare's body then regressed to normalcy, and her mouth hung open in both surprise and dismay. The one controlling her _yoki_ had an acute command over it, which meant she had to be a high rank indeed. A blur passed Raki's lady, and blood spurted from the wound on her right shoulder. Clare fell to her knees, stunned silence taking her.

Raki attempted to rise, barely successful. "Clare..." he breathed. He needed to get to her before...before...

Soon, to both their utter dismay, several more of their enemies appeared, surrounding them. This was a thing unheard of! Only when fighting Awakened beings did that happen, or so Clare had relayed to him once. And Clare, though only partially awakened, would be a perfect candidate for one of those, Raki realized, horror rising. He needed to get to her, and fast. The loss of blood from his wound was slowing him exponentially, though. He had always been either too slow, or too weak; he was no Claymore.

One of those mysterious men dressed in black also emerged from the shadows of the woods behind them. He addressed them, saying, "Number Fourty-Seven, Clare, and accomplice Raki. You are not permitted to resist any more than you have. Should you continue in your traitorous efforts, you _will_ be destroyed."

"Now wait just a minute," Raki demanded, "you don't kill humankind! And damn it, you _won't _kill her!"

"That remains to be seen, young man. And no, we don't, but if we need information, such as the whereabouts of both Priscilla and Isley, for example – whom, it should be noted, you traveled with for some time – we will take whatever measures necessary to _get _that information. Do you understand? You would do well, also, to keep your mouth shut, unless commanded to speak. Is that also clear?"

Raki said nothing, a clear statement of both his understanding and already-growing disdain for this man. How had he known _that _bit of information? Meanwhile, one of the others tended to the wounded, assisting her in reattaching her arm. That always disturbed the young man slightly, even if he knew it was for the better (or in this case the worse). Things were not looking upwards.

"Thus speaking, bandage his wounds. We cannot afford to have a dead source. Oh, and see to it that their hands are bound. We cannot afford to have them escape." He then turned away, and disappeared once more into the shadows. So that was it? Blasted Organization! What were they planning?

Clare was still stunned silent when a equally silent woman approached her. She sported shoulder-length hair, with two long locks hanging down to her midsection, seemingly a little extra armor (spikes adorning the knees of what looked to be more like grieves around her lower legs, as well as on the ends of the sabatons that covered her feet; the most notable, however, were the gauntlets she wore: they spanned the length of her forearms, and on the knuckles were studded), and a quiet pride that only some of the higher ranks carried. That sent up a red flag.

"Stand," commanded the woman in a firm voice, not meaning tolerance for any nonsense whatsoever. Clare did so, her legs trembling from weakness due to the loss of blood on her shoulder. The blood was warm and fresh, and seeped out freely, as if imprisoned and now newly-released. The other had been grasping strong leather chords as she approached, and commenced tying her wrists tightly together. It was strong enough to ache, and make the veins pulse in objection, but there was nothing Clare could do about it.

She then toted a bag which was to be placed over the prisoner's head. Clare did not like that idea. "That won't be necessary. I know where the Organization Headquarters are."

The woman paused momentarily. A roll of the eyes, then, "A back-talker. No, where we're going, you have no clue. Don't resist, or I'll be forced to –"

She didn't finish. With a strong movement, Clare headbutted the warrior hard. Her head snapped back, and she grunted. About to make her next move, it was Clare's turn to grunt as she found first the wind knocked out of her, then her head brought down forcefully upon a knee stud, and finally a punch to the face that made her fly back several feet. She slid on the ground a few more, and groaned at the wash of fresh pain, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.

_What in the hell was that? _

"I told you not to resist, but you didn't listen. Fool," that same voice said. Her head still swimming, she was brought none-too-gently to her feet, and a black cloth bag covered her vision for a time. Raki struggled some, but eventually even his grunts were silenced. This had gone from bad to worse in a hurry. Too much of a hurry.


	3. An Apple?

Isley was still out there, as was Priscilla. Riful of the West was no small threat either, with her brutish companion. It was now no small knowledge to the survivors of the War that the Organization was not what they thought it was, and they were not about to let it go by unchecked without doing whatever in their power possible to stop the torrent.

Helen, Deneve, and Miria had been traveling for quite some time. Their primary goal was to catch up to Clare and the young man Raki, but thus far, it had proved fruitless. Not one of them was as adept at sensing _yoki _as they could be (or rather as Galatea, as Helen would often complain), so when Clare's virtually disappeared, their pursuit became difficult. They too were forced to rely on their natural senses, and as well, to suppress their own auras as a precaution against detection. Relying heavily on information gathered from locals and the human populace, the three continued their "hunt," taking only what rest and nourishment they needed. It was a fact, indeed, that eating became forced, their primary objective and priority being to find their comrade. Even Helen, who usually held less reservations in her eating habits, was affected by the melancholy weight.

It did not, however, to finally catch a glimpse (and quite a profound one) of their goal. Whilst resting (rather restlessly for the desire to move onward), a sudden jolt of _yoki_ could be felt several miles to the south and west of them. Their heads shot up, each recognizing instantly from whom it came. It was indeed Clare, and Raki was sure to be nearby.

Like a bus crashing head-on into a speeding train, the realization hit them that she was likely in trouble. Bolting to her feet, Miria did not hesitate in the least. Deneve, stoic, calm, expressed nothing, though her eyes radiated concern. Helen dropped the apple she had been feasting upon moments ago, gripping her claymore.

"Damn it, Clare! She's standing out like red ink!" she cried.

"Which means either she's signaling for us, or she is involved in a skirmish herself that she cannot _hope_ to win. Come on!" shouted Miria. Immediately, the three took to running at top speed, just like before. Clare's _yoki _continued to shine out like a beacon, a lighthouse of energy that meant either she was likely in that monstrous half-awakened form that she had toted when she defeated Priscilla. As well, that could likely mean that she was either once again engaging the beast, or something else. If that was true, and she was fighting against Priscilla, Isley would also be there. Who was to say that the two Beings wouldn't work in tandem to defeat their friend?

The three were about halfway there. Miria cursed herself for not being faster, and assumed that the other two were likely feeling the same or similar as they were all running at the same pace. She cursed herself for letting Clare go off alone. She also cursed the other warrior

_Clare, you idiot! You better not die before we arrive! Damn it, I'm not fast enough!_

Her alarm grew when she felt the _yoki_ flicker and begin to wane. Adrenaline racing through her veins, she burst forth with a new speed that carried her a bit ahead of the other two. Soon enough, though, even they caught up with her, even with her on either side. They would not be parted, not allowing one to go alone. The lone _yoki _continued to decrease, but did not disappear entirely. Miria's heart skipped a beat.

Of a sudden, there was felt other auras; _yoki_ of insurmountable strength and density. Miria slid to a halt, the other two following suit. There were six in total, including Clare's now-weakened energy, and three of them were absolutely astounding. She could not believe what she was feeling in that moment. It was almost unreal.

"_Get down, now!" _she cried. The three ducked under cover of the bushes and shrubbery of the forest floor (as they had been traveling through the forest that Clare and Raki had traversed), their _yoki_ having been safely and cautiously suppressed for the duration of their trek. They could see (having now arrived two-thirds of the way to the place where their quarry had been captured) from their vantage point that Clare had downed two of the warriors, one in particular who's arm she removed. Only her legs had been awakened, and it looked as if she had been zipping about prior to the present moment. Raki was not in good shape. Another warrior, a particularly strong one at that, emerged and proceeded to beat Clare to ribbons. Things looked grim.

_The Organization? What in the wide world are they doing there? Why would they attack one of their own? _Then again, they had, whether admittedly or not, deserted to their own designs. What reason had they to believe that the Organization would accept any of them back with open arms? On the other hand, they had survived the War, so how was it that the Organization would deal out such treatment? It was all so confusing.

"There she is!" Helen whispered, not in the least happy with what she saw. "What now? Do we just sit back and watch that bitch beat Clare senseless?"

"Miria?" Deneve inquired.

Their leader's thoughts raced as she began to quickly formulate a plan. Or at least the hatchlings of one. The Organization's headquarters was the other way, and captors and prisoners alike would be traveling in that direction. As well, they, being who they were, would likely keep to the roads, as they would want their examples to be seen by all who crossed their paths. The arrogance was sickening. The road lead due west of their current position not 100 yards. Though the enemy had three rather potent soldiers, they did not – likely _would_ not – expect a surprise ambush from three _other_ rather potent warriors. It was simple, yes, but it would likely give them the edge they needed to once again have Clare in their midst. Ever since Miria had abandoned their search for the Awakened beings Riful and Isley, and set out to find their companion, things only seemed to have mounted against them.

Her eyes shut as she formed out the details of how this was to go about, a few moments passed. Upon finishing, they shot open. "It's simple, but it should be enough to jar those bastards. Once we have them by the neck, Clare will be ours. I warn, though, we must keep our _yoki _suppressed. Clear, everyone?"

"Aye," came Deneve's response.

"Of course, but what exactly do you have in mind?" Helen asked.

"An ambush," came the cold response.

"Oh, I gotcha. I'm in!" A glint of absolute mirth was in Helen's silver eyes.

"Alright then. Let's give 'em a royal blanket sweep they'll never forget."

**cccccccccccccccccccc**

The march of darkness began in earnest. Their sight blinded, neither Clare nor Raki could see anything, their eyes blinded, as their captors lead them along the trail back into the forest from whence they had previously come. It hadn't even reached midday, and already things had turned far too sour. The one thing they had hoped would never happen had. How so, it was unknown to either of them.

"Move it!" commanded Corkscrew girl as she shoved Raki forward when he hesitated. He tripped over a rock and fell on his face with a grunt. The Claymore showed no mercy by, instead of helping him to his feet, kicking him.

"Get up!"

"_Leave him be!" _cried Clare, not quite knowing where the event was, but that it was somewhere to her left. Suddenly, her head jolted back, and she felt cold steel at her neck. Was this how the Organization treated their prisoners? Including humans? Insanity and hellfire!

"What? You want some too?" said the calm, cold voice behind her. She said nothing in response, knowing well that it belonged to the one who beat her senseless. "Then keep your mouth _shut._"

"Ladies, you know well the punishment for mistreatment of prisoners. Get him on his feet, Leslie, and take that blade away from her throat, Eline. It would do no good to have them dead before valuable information was got," commanded the apparent leader. Grumbling, the Claymore named Leslie roughly lifted Raki to his feet, and Eline removed the blade from its threatening place in front of Clare's trachea.

"Traitors will not be tolerated, but traitors with information are valuable. Come on, let us pick up the pace some. We've an hour to our first checkpoint," came the overseer's command.

"Of course," said the seemingly overconfident _yoki_-controller. "Come, my friends."

_Friends would hardly be a consideration, _thought an infuriated, distraught Clare.

**cccccccccccccccccccc**

"I will flank them to the right. Deneve, you will flank their left. Helen," Miria said, not in the mood to tolerate any hindrance, "you will be above."

"Wait...above?" she inquired, rather confused.

Miria merely nodded. "Yes, those are your assignments. Any questions?"

"Why above?" Helen was clearly confused.

"You'll see," was all the explanation she got, as both she and Deneve made way to their respective posts.

"Tch! Never enough informa –" She didn't finish as a red apple flew her direction. Catching it easily, she studied it momentarily, not quite knowing what to do – whether to eat it or otherwise. She decided she would save it for a special occasion, making note to thank Miria later for it.

_Psh, screw thanks! Free apple and no complaints; gods, have my fortunes improved, if I do say so myse –!_

The thought was not finished. She heard raised voices on the air, and though her _yoki_ was suppressed, could pick out four distinct auras. Those had to be the ones they were looking to surprise. Eyes widening, she found the nearest tree and scrambled up into its branches, making sure to stay well hidden in the rather thick canopy. It was very risky being directly above the party, but if the plan worked as it should (whatever it was; for once, Miria wasn't so open about this one, which was strange even for her), everything would be ay-okay...right?

It was a long fifteen minutes. The three waited, and though patient as trained, they were restless for the ball to get rolling, Helen especially. To entertain herself, she held the apple (which she had gingerly carried with her) at eye-level and admired its shiny surface, a habit that she had developed over time. It couldn't be _that _strange; it was one of the few vestiges of humanity she had left – food that was, and she basked in it. If only the others could understand her tastes and love for the stuff. So engrossed was she in her thoughts – and the eventual (almost obsessive) taste of Red Delicious apple in her mouth – that she failed to notice the party below her stop in order to let Raki relieve himself...

"Get on with it, kid, and hurry up!" shouted one of the Claymores, the one who apparently had Raki under her charge. She was none too kind or gentle with him. That startled Helen out of her reverie, and the apple dropped from her hand. Not daring to attempt to reach out for it for fear of revealing the ambush, she merely remained on her perch, cursing herself. She knew the nice fruit would surely be bruised.

_Plop _went the thing as it landed on the long-haired one's head. She cursed and looked up. Helen held her breath, a drop of sweat sliding down her right cheek. However, to hers, and the relief of her companions, the scan was only brief as Long-Hair bent to retrieve the fruit. Lifting it to eye-level herself, she studied it a moment.

"An apple?"

The overseer approached at a brisk pace. "Let me see that, Anabelle." Dutifully, she gave up the fruit to him. "This is strange. Apples don't grow out here," he said as he studied the delicacy that Helen so enjoyed.To Helen's horror, he took a bite.

"Not bad," before freezing. That act alone infuriated Helen beyond anything. _No one _ate her apples, and got away with it!

Eyes widening, and dropping the apple, he exclaimed, "Something isn't right. Draw swo –!" He did not finish. Instead, his body fell into to clean halves, from crown to crotch, a ghastly fountain of blood bursting from them. The three Claymores stared in utter shock at what they were witnessing: an arm, seemingly made of rubber or something of the like, holding a claymore, had cut the man clean in half. It had apparently come from above them, from the very tree where the apple fell from.

Even more disturbing was that the blood that spurted from the two halves of their supposed overseer was a deep violet.


	4. Dance of Death

**A/N: I apologize for any discrepancies, and hope bad reviews are not in order. *is somewhat insecure about his creativity* ^_^;**

The eyes of the three warriors that held firm to their loyalty to the Organization grew wide as saucers at the heresy they witnessed. Even wider still when they saw the color of their supposed overseer's – who was said to be one of the most devout and loyal to the Organization – blood as it spouted forth in all directions in a fountain. The arm that had done the deed retracted back up into the tree, and the astonished Claymores watched as three others emerged from places of hiding.

"_Now!" _cried Miria when the bait was taken, the shock delivered. Her and Deneve leaped from their places of hiding, and Helen with a holler landed heavily behind them. Miria took her position in front of the one named Anabelle, while Deneve took hers in front of the one that held Clare – now as a hostage – and Helen stood her ground in front of the one named Leslie, who held Raki fast.

"Wha..." said a rather surprised Anabelle. These obviously were traitors as well, and had to be dealt with promptly. The question stood, though: how had she not detected them as easily as the prisoner? There was no telling what they might try, nor what they were about, so there were only two options at this point: fight or die.

"Surprised?" chimed Helen. "Hope ya are, 'cause you're in for hell."

Miria checked the other, she (Helen) being betimes prone to rowdiness. "If it can be helped, we will not fight you, warriors of the Organization," Miria pointed out, though every muscle was taught and ready to draw her claymore if necessary. "We are here to demand that you give up those two. In response, we will spare your lives and let you go."

Deneve gave her a look. "Are you quite sure that's wise?"

"Yeah, letting them go would..." Helen trailed off.

"Spare us, you say? Do you think we fear death by your hands?" Anabelle chided.

"You might say that when we are finished with you, and your own blood pools about you," came the reply from the captain, with the hint of a matter-of-fact tone. "But that is not our priority. Give them up, and you will live to see at least one more day."

Leslie and Eline stifled laughter, and Anabelle snorted. "I could vomit. Who and what are you? Obviously you are, or were, of our Organization?"

"That doesn't matter. You will meet our demands, or meet your end," Miria was not in the mood for nonsense. Helen crouched slightly, and Deneve's hands balled into fists, her arms taught and ready to draw her claymores at a moment's notice.

A lopsided grin upon the leader's face, then, "Oh dear. It seems that our overseer no longer exists. I thought I could sense the faintest of _yoki_ from him, strange as it was. Nonetheless, what the Organization doesn't know will not hurt them. I will now take leadership of this party." A sidelong glance to Leslie, followed by, "Kill the young man, as an example."

Facing the three once again, Anabelle made this statement, "The enemy deserves no mercy. Let this be a lesson to you all." A wicked grin replaced the calm demeanor on her pale, fair face as Leslie prepared to lop off Raki's head.

"_No, don't touch him!" _cried Clare. "Let him free, and I will go in his place." By this time, the blindings were removed from the two prisoners' heads, and they could see clearly who was before them, although Clare had recognized who had been speaking just by sound of voice. Raki glanced up momentarily at his lady to catch her glance before she returned her gaze to the leader.

"Ah, a charitable one are you? You must be close to this young man, I presume?" Clare said nothing. "Very well. Kill them both."

Eline bashed the back of Clare's head, causing her to fall to her knees. A fresh wave of pain overtook her, and her vision blurred momentarily. So this was it. The end was nigh, and this was how it was to be carried out: a proper execution by the military she once so dutifully served. How humiliating. Taking one last look at Raki, she awaited the end as Eline lifted her claymore to remove her head from her shoulders...

It never came. A mighty swing, and _CLANG! _It was blocked by another. Having squeezed her eyes shut, Clare now looked up to see Deneve's face, calm, calculating, ready to read her opponent's every move. There was nothing for it now. A fight would ensue, and either the three that had taken Raki and Clare captive would lie dead, or the five of them would. It was now a matter of who would have the upper hand.

Both of the defensive warrior's blades were crossed as she held the other's at bay, skillfully keeping it from moving though they rattled and shook much. Deneve was strong. Eline, however, was not about to be bested by some upstart. She shoved the other away, and made, once again, to take off Clare's head. All over again, the abyss washed over her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to meet it.

Again, though, it did not come. With utmost skillful swordplay, Deneve parried the blow and went on the offensive, driving the other warrior back, just enough for her comrade to get clear. Clare got the hint and rose shakily to her feet. Testing the bonds that held her hands fast together, she found that they were indeed strong, and breaking them in any way would require more strength than she then had.

That design was soon broken when she was knocked aside by that same metal-laden warrior, Eline. Whatever endowment of strength she had, it was diabolically vast as Clare flew to one side several feet, sliding to a halt. Not too far behind, however, a claymore raced, in the same direction. Directly at her, in fact. With barely enough consciousness regained to move out of the way, Clare leaped to one side, barely avoiding being impaled by the deadly blade into a nearby tree. The weapon wavered slightly in its precarious position, but beyond that did not move.

"Once the shadow of the grip reaches that point," Eline said, pointing out a boulder with a nod of her head, the two locks of blond hair bobbing slightly at the movement, "and either one of us declares 'yield,' or are killed, the prisoners go free, or are slain."

"Simple enough, although without your sword you might be at a disadvantage," came Deneve's reply, the calm voice not wavering in the least. She did not fear this woman. Not at all.

Eline took on a fighting stance that looked for all the world like some kung-fu or tae-kwon-do position. That got stares of bewilderment from the other rebels, as well as a raised eyebrow from Deneve. "This is new. I'm wondering: do you think to best me with some sort of martial art? If so, give it up."

Eline thrashed her head from first one side, then the other, audible cracks and pops being the result. "That's not an option. It's _because _I'm without the sword that I have the advantage. I am not entitled Hard-Puncher Eline for nothing." A smirk, and she beckoned Deneve to come at her, taunting the stoic warrior.

"So be it, Hard-Puncher. Your arrogance will be your downfall," promised Deneve. She did not heed Eline's prompt, but instead circled her opponent. The two massive claymores were a rather imposing sight, but the other warrior remained undaunted as she too began the slow circle, slowly switching her stance from time to time.

In her peripheral vision, Eline spotted a rock the size of a football right in her path. Upon reaching, she, with a cry, made it airborne with a reverse wheel kick that sent it flying straight at Deneve's face. Not one to fall for such rubbish, the quiet warrior merely avoided it, but to her near detriment. The flying rock was enough of a distraction (if but a tiny one) to give Eline a chance, which she gladly took. Blasting through the air with a flying sidekick, she nearly took off Deneve's head. The other, however, had recovered just enough to duck out of the way, whirling back around to face her foe. Before she knew it, however, Eline was on her again. Deneve came in first with first a downward slash with the left claymore, then the right, which Eline easily blocked skillfully with each gauntlet-covered forearm. Seizing the other woman's wrists in her tight grasp, she headbutted the tough warrior in the face, causing her to grunt. Letting go of her wrists, Eline landed a square punch that should have crushed Deneve's skull. The blow caused the other Claymore to fly back several feet, landing on her back. She, however, was not that easily undone. Rising quickly, blood trickling from her nose, she only had time to either brace herself or move out of the way of the next attack, another flying sidekick, performed effortlessly by the Hard-Puncher. Deneve opted for the second choice and merely avoided the move. When Eline landed, she whirled around only to meet an onslaught of Deneve's attacks. First, a right sideswipe with the right claymore followed closely by an upward-right arc with the left one. Eline blocked the first with a forearm, then stopped the second in its tracks with an armored open hand. Deneve did not stop there. Using the momentum of her second attack, she whirled around, surprising Eline with a reverse wheel-kick that sent the Claymore reeling. She followed that by a double right sideswipe using both swords: one toward the other's neck, the other to the midsection.

Bringing both her arms to meet the two blades, Eline stopped them short once again with her forearms. Both warriors wore masks of impenetrable, emotionless calm. Deneve was not done. She, being in a forward stance, in a daring move kicked up a gout of dirt with her back leg, the foot sending the stuff flying into the other's eyes. The move had the desired effect. Eline's head shot backward and slightly to the right as she squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. It was, seemingly, by sheer luck that she narrowly avoided being sliced in two. Instead, her chest received a nice bloody gash. Crying out momentarily, she prepared herself for the next advance: a downward strike with the left claymore. Bring her arms into and X-block, she stopped it before it could finish its objective (which would have been to slice her as Helen had sliced the overseer). Twisting her hands at the wrists skillfully and fluidly, the backs of them now grasped the blade, and she yanked mightily whilst twisting her wrists so that her hands righted. Deneve was pulled forward, and that sword relieved of her grip, it being tossed aside like a toy. Eline took hold of the other's wrist, twisting it up, bringing the arm behind her back (thus whirling her around so that her back was to the Hard-Puncher), and pulled upward, having Deneve now in a deadlock. With her left armored hand, she gripped the warrior's neck, threatening to twist it violently in order to break it.

Her visage ever calm, Eline made a single demand, "Yield."

"Gah!" Deneve cried out briefly, a pained grimace adorning her face. Hard-Puncher began to twist slowly. Popping and creaking of bones were loud and menacing in the other's ears, but that was not enough to make her give up. She could take a few risks.

"_Deneve!" _shouted Helen. _That bitch'll get it if she..._

That particular thought was not finished. The seemingly beaten warrior had taken in her surroundings enough to know what was nearby. The tree behind them would serve her well, if she could just summon enough strength...

"I...will not yield. I'm not finished with you yet," came the cold response to Eline's demand. Springing backward with all her might, to a baffled Eline's surprise, she slammed the other into that very tree, sending them both tumbling. The more heavily-armored one was up first, but Deneve was close behind. Neither of them were armed, but Eline would, as stated before, now have the advantage, as she was obviously skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Too skilled. Where had she learned this, and how was it that she could best any of her kind, let alone _yoma _or Awakened, with just melee? Indeed, it would be difficult to get past her to the weapons that were so needed.

"You're without your weapons, little girl. Might as well yield."

"Hardly. I will not rest until your lungs are filled with your own blood," came Deneve's emotionless retort. That was rewarded with a raised brow from the other.

The two circled each other once again, Eline taking on one of her artistic stances, Deneve taking on a more generic position. This would be difficult. Then, like two gunshots, the two charged each other once again. Hard-Puncher could plainly see what the other's next move would be, judging by her body positioning, and subtle movements, thus making her the superior. However, she had learned to expect the unexpected.

Not this unexpected.

A blur rushed past behind her, the sound of a whirlwind emanating from it, then back around _into _her, knocking her over in her charge. Once that happened, she could not find its whereabouts. She attempted to stand, but when her legs refused to move, she was baffled. Looking down, her eyes widened in horror as the two limbs were severed a little above the knee. What in the hell...?

"_EYAHHH!" _came the screech of pain and dismay, though it was only momentary. Deneve rushed past the downed Claymore to retrieve her weapons. All eyes then turned to whoever had redeemed the defensive warrior, and saw Clare, hands unbound – though wrists bloodied and cut – grasping her own Claymore as if it was a lifeline. She turned her cold gaze upon Leslie, who she had been engaged with previously and had subdued for the moment. Raki was free and had rushed to their allies.

"I broke the bonds," she pointed out. "You should know better than to just leave the weapons of your prisoners lying about. Fools."

"_Yeah, Clare! You show 'em!" _shouted Helen, jabbing a fist in the air. She turned to Miria, who didn't look quite as convinced that they had won just yet. This was somewhat disconcerting to the other woman. "What now?" came the inquiry.

"Something isn't right. The armored one's down, but she doesn't seem to be done." Eyes narrowed, then, "Observe."

To all the allies' surprise, Eline released a gout of _yoki_ energy, causing the ground to shake where she lie. Raising up on her hands, blood still spilling from the wounds like rivers, she cried out in a monstrous voice (her very face contorted and defaced to resemble something that looked for all the world like _yoma_). The aura was huge, and the allies then realized that they might be dealing with single-digits, at least for her part. It was rather rapid and amazing, but the limbs that had been severed regenerated right before their eyes!

_What the...? _Helen mouthed, disbelief etched all over her face. Miria stayed calm, but Clare and Raki held the same expression as Helen. Deneve's jaw tightened, clenching over and over. Mind-boggling to witness such a sight, since up to this point, Hard-Puncher Eline seemed to have exhibited traits of an offensive type warrior.

The process complete, Eline regressed, and stood, the legs not in the least weakened. "I suppose I could have reattached them, but this was faster. I have no time to waste, and" she noted, giving Clare a hateful glare, "you cheated. The duel may very well be forfeit, and a free-for-all ensue. You are a fool, speed demon," directing that at the chimera of Claymores.

Deneve wasted no time. She once again rushed Eline, now realizing that the only way to kill her would be to take off her head. The other at once took on one of her flashy fighting stances, her legs bare just above the knee and down. Without those seemingly indestructible grieves, they were vulnerable, and trying to use those limbs as a defense mechanism would be pointless and cost her time and _yoki_. Deneve, instead of going right into an offensive, leaped up, performing a front flip over the other's head. Once landing behind her, she whirled, swept both swords in a cross-blow, one to the right, the other to the left, meaning to take off the legs again. Any diversion would give her the advantage, but she anticipated that Eline would not fall for such a move. Leaping up whilst whirling 180 degrees, the Hard-Puncher executed a wheel-kick that sent the other warrior reeling. Recovering from that, however, Deneve did not let time waste as she lunged, blow after blow. A downward strike with the left blade, followed all too closely by a left-downward arc with the right, then a right-upward arc with that same weapon, and a furious jab with the sword gripped tightly in her left hand. Eline (barely) managed to parry the first two, but had to physically avoid the third. That failed when another gash appeared across her chest, in that same direction, causing a crude X to mark the spot where the jab would design to penetrate. She, however, was better than that. She clapped the fast-moving blade in both hands, and made to yank it behind her, thinking again to hold Deneve in a painful arm lock. The staunch warrior, though, would have none of that. Releasing the minutest of _yoki_, veins bulged on the sides of her face, as well as down the length of that arm. With a growl, she yanked upward, forcing the blade free of Eline's tight grip. Immediately suppressing that _yoki_ once more, Deneve did something unexpected: she brought her blades in that same crossing X fashion, but this time the bottom angle thereof was holding Eline's wrists at bay. Lifting upward, she first front-kicked the other hard in the gut, then in the chest where the two wounds were. Bringing the flats of her weapons between the two wrists, she shoved outward, forcing the arms in those directions. Springing upward again, she used all the force in her legs to double-sidekick off the baffled warrior's face, causing her to fall on her rear end. Deneve executed a back flip, landing on her feet a small distance away.

"Do not underestimate your adversary, for all the finesse and technique in the world will not always save you," Deneve said, not looking directly at Eline. Fool, this dual sword-wielder had a death wish! It was when she realized what was being looked at that Eline began to move. She barely had time to meet the onslaught, the whirlwind, the torrential storm of metal and death that had come her way. That cheeky little girl could do _this? _

Clare was relentless with the Quick Sword, knowing that soon enough her _yoki _would be at the mercy of the one who had that gods-awful ability to control such. Those thoughts in her mind, she designed to make the quickest of works of this (to her) all-brawn-and-no-brains warrior who somehow had the uncanny ability to regenerate. There was no way in hell that her friends would suffer at this one's hands. She went on for several moments, causing many deep wounds on Eline's body (as she was not meaning to kill her...yet). The other grunted and gasped at the pain, not having a clue as to how to counter this terrible technique. Clare's control over the Quick Sword had improved to this point, and had been since first rescuing Jean, then her first encounter with Priscilla.

Suddenly she felt her _yoki_ begin to wane, and the Quick Sword's potency begin to diminish. In moments, the onslaught would be ended, and her life forfeit, at the mercy of this grizzly warrior. How the Organization had gotten a hold of someone who had acute control over the _yoki _of others', she hadn't the slightest. She didn't have any time to muse over it, though. She needed to down this dog before...before...

All of a sudden, her _yoki_ spiked rapidly up to its original peak, that is to say, to where it was sufficient enough to use the Quick Sword at the level she had been wielding it. Glancing minutely over her shoulder, she could see the one called Anabelle engaged in a skirmish with Miria (it seemed the _yoki_-controller had to be completely concentrated on that effort alone). Off to her right, Helen was battling it out with Leslie. So. All were engaged in a free-for-all. Perhaps if the shadow of the hilt of Eline's sword still reached the boulder, all three of their enemies were down, and "yield" was demanded, the match would still be set... Perhaps...

"Deneve, suggest you join Helen. I'll finish this one!" she shouted, Eline avoiding and dodging out of the way of another storm. Her speed was surpassed by the other's, though as she whirled and parried several blows. Eline was getting frustrated, and it was showing. Her face was a mask of rage as her bare legs were awarded several deep wounds. Deneve hesitated a brief moment, but made little consideration as she raced to her friend's assistance in fighting Leslie.

Clare wasted no time then. Using only what _yoki_ she needed, she raced at Eline with "guns ablaze." Eline would have none of the other's tricks. She flipped out of the way, a front flip over Clare's head. The chimera of a Claymore, however, was not about to let the stronger warrior best her with finesse. She needed to keep the other as far away as possible, and the Quick Sword seemed to be doing the trick. A quick glance behind her told her that Miria was holding her own against Anabelle. Returning her attention to her own target, she rushed Eline with reckless abandon, the Quick Sword unleashing a storm deathly metal. Eline struck out to Clare's left, but that proved fruitless as the technique was once again utilized as a defense. Eline was frustrated beyond anything.

It was when she noticed a certain pattern to Clare's attack and defense mechanisms that she once again gained the advantage. She just...stopped. Clare approached, coming dangerously close. Holding the weapon first at eye-level, then moving it outward, she prepared for another barrage, this time one that would render Eline incapacitated. The dam broke. The wave arose. The giant awoke. Then all hell broke loose as the Quick Sword once again released its deadly whirlwind of destructive force.

And was abruptly stopped when Eline clapped it between her hands, a poignant _CLANG_ resounding throughout the entire clearing. The feral winds that often accompanied such a high-end ability blew through the two warriors' hair. Clare's eyes widened, and Eline's narrowed. She had the thing just near the point where blade met tip, and so had enough give to execute her next technique. She yanked back, twisting her wrists in a manner in which she could better grasp the blade at the same time. Yanking the blade clean out of Clare's right hand, it fell to the ground, a useless thing now. Jabbing forward, she landed a strong one to the weaker Claymore's sternum, causing her to begin flight backward. Before she could get far, however, Hard-Puncher seized Clare's left arm and slammed her ground-ward in the complete opposite direction, dislocating the woman's shoulder at the same time.

"_Gah!" _came Clare's cry as the sharp pain bit into her being. She hit the ground with all the gentleness of a boulder to the bottom of 1,000-foot cliff. All her insides threatened to break apart from the impact, but miraculously they didn't. Eline lifted her by a handful of her clothing and with another solid blow to the face, nearly rendered her unconscious. Then another, another, and another. One more time, Eline prepared to pummel the weakened Claymore, but Clare was resourceful, despite her blurry vision, the taste of blood in her mouth, and pain like hellfire within. Just before that blow was delivered, Clare noticed her fallen sword from earlier. It was a little over arm's length from her sword arm.

Squeezing her eyes shut, hoping only to grip the hilt once more, she grasped a handful of dirt and threw it in Eline's face. That had more than the desired effect. It caused the other woman to both shut her eyes against the nuisance as well as loosen her grip. So that was her weakness: her eyes. Those would have to be put out at some point. Rolling to her right, Clare once again took up her weapon, rising to her feet in one fell swoop. Eline, however, had recovered quick enough to make another rush. Clare was ready. This time, having remembered the strike at which the other had stopped the Quick Sword so abruptly, she brought it upward instead of down first off, causing confusion in the other woman. Eline had to lift her arms to cover her face, but it did little in the onslaught of the Quick Sword.

_What the hell? How is it that I'm losing to this whelp? _The thought raced through Number Six's head momentarily before several wounds were sliced all over her body: arms, legs, torso – nothing was spared. She fell to her knees. How on earth...?

Clare placed the blade on the back of Eline's neck. "Yield."

Glancing up at the victor, then over at her sword, still impaled in the tree, Eline's heart sank. She could barely sense Leslie's _yoki; _she must have been bested by those other two (of course it would take two of these _weaklings_). Anabelle was still engaged with the leader of the rebels, who was outstandingly fast. What had gone wrong? What had happened? How could this even be?

A shot from Helen the back of that one's head, and without warning, Anabelle fell first to her knees, then face-first to the dirt, unconscious. Miria, panting for breath (apparently her fight had been arduous, as Anabelle seemed to have the strongest of the three), held sword-point directly over the back of Number Three's neck.

Her gaze met Clare's momentarily, then Eline's. "Your answer?" came her inquiry.

"You...win."

The shadow of the hilt of the claymore had reached the boulder.

**A/N Again: Yes, they just got pwned. The bad guys, that is. Keep on readin' if you like it thus far. I enjoy writing it. Now, I ought to let everyone know: because I also compose music, projects come up that can sometimes grab my attention away from writing. I love both equally, and hope to have a career of sorts doing both at some point in the future after school and all that. Speaking of school, in a few weeks, that starts as well, so expect a little-bit-longer delays in my updates. Again, hope all are satisfied with the content of this fic.**

**Oh, another note: I take after the authors C. J. Cherryh and Terry Brooks as my largest influences, if anyone would like to know.**


	5. We Are the Ghosts of Pieta

**A/N: I realize I was very descriptive in the last chapter with my battle scenes. Hopefully, by toning them down in this one, it won't be so confusing.**

Recovery was slower for Raki, he having sustained beatings and his lacerated wrists no small trifle, but otherwise well. The other four were better off, they having the ability to heal quicker than humankind. It was, betimes, a point of frustration for the young man, not always being capable enough or able to keep up with the Claymores. He wanted no more than to assist and protect his lady, but he often, in defeat, was obliged to face the fact that his best efforts were not always quite adequate.

He was grateful, however, for the tender mercy of frequent stops, that his shaky limbs could recuperate more. That the Claymores, ever-itching to move along to their destination, would wait on him was yet another testament to their hidden humanity.

Rather, Clare's, he corrected himself. She would often note his struggles, pained expressions, absolute need for rest, even when outwardly denying it; she would see all this and appeal to the one named Miria. Often, the other would give him a look, but it was no more a signification of her acknowledgment of his plight as much as it was one of annoyance. If anyone was impatient, it was the one called Helen. Often, though, her seemingly close friend Deneve would shut her up in a hurry. Her chagrin, however, did not last as long as it could have.

Their travels continued to hold directionally identical with Clare's. Perhaps these powerful warriors would join the duo? Who knew. What could be gleaned, however, was that Clare had given apparent leadership over to Miria. The other three Claymores did not often question her word, as she seemed (to him at least) quite wise and cunning.

On a certain occasion when there was need to relieve himself, Raki retired somewhere private to do so while the women discussed amongst themselves. It had, by then, been ten days since their skirmish with the Organization's lot, and since, none had as yet shown themselves again. The feeling that their adversaries were not finished with them loomed over their heads like an impending storm. Nonetheless, despite all the stops they had made for Clare's charge, they were nearing woodlands again at the feet of a range of gargantuan mountains. The party had done their utmost to avoid roads and highways, but on the plains between the woods and mountains, there was little they could do.

"You are all aware that the Organization may now know our whereabouts, or are likely tracking us, yes?" Miria inquired.

Nods, followed by, "Aye," from Deneve. Clare said nothing.

"It's imperative, then, that we keep alert. _And _keep suppressed our _yoki _auras. The more secrecy we have, the absolute better off we'll be." A rustling in the grasses nearby caused all to reach for swords, but when Raki hiked around the very boulder Miria was perched atop, audible sighs of relief echoed by the Claymores.

He looked from face to face. "Uhhhh...did I miss something?" Silence from the others elicited an awkward grin from the young man as he took his place beside Clare. Their nerves had grown tense over the past ten days, and none could afford to risk complacency. Their senses were ever alert for danger, and at night they would often have two on watch to make absolute certain of their safety and solitude.

"Miria was emphasizing the importance of our keeping a low profile before you arrived," whispered Clare. A nod from him indicated his understanding of the situation.

Their leader continued. "Furthermore, the lands that we will traverse may likely be fraught with dangers and threats, perhaps even to our very lives. Word that Awakened tread these parts has since reached my ears; I wouldn't be surprised if we encountered one or more of their lot.

"I know most of us have faced them before. The only concern I have is," her silver gaze fell upon Raki, "is you." All eyes then turned to the young man. His own eyes turned ground-ward a moment. He did not quite know how to go about convincing them (if that was what it would take) that he was capable, since up to this point, he had not shown much in the way of ability.

Clare gave him a light nudge. Looking up at the faces, eyes locked upon him, he spoke then, saying, "I – I realize that when those three attacked...I wasn't much help...at least for my part. I don't know why. But I've been traveling with Clare for quite a long time. We've faced these so-called Awakened and _yoma _alike. I have helped her kill, and have delivered the killing blow on many of those occasions."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, choosing his words carefully. "When her and I were separated, I was alone for some time. That is, until, a generous man took me in. He fed me, treated me like a brother; maybe even a son – I don't know – but he also trained me in the art of the sword and many other things. I can help you, I really can."

All were silent after that. Clare spoke after a few unbearable moments had passed. "I believe he deserves a chance. We were ill-prepared for that last fight, he especially, being taken completely by surprise." It was her turn for the eyes to study the ground. "And I admit, in those heated moments, I neglected to cut your bonds that you might have assisted us."

Again, a somewhat awkward silence. Miria spoke then, her tone holding no less expression than Clare's. "Whatever happened back there, it no longer matters. If what you say is true, Raki," a nod to the young man, "then there is no problem I can see with allowing you to stay with us."

Once again addressing the entire party, her voice took on the authoritative tone of her position. "Though we have traveled together, and have ties to past events, I'll once again iterate that no oath or bond holds you to this party or its designs. If you feel to leave at any point of the journey, there will not a finger be lifted to resist.

"Mark my words, though," her eyes narrowed, "the more we have on our side, the better off we will be. Any questions?"

Helen piped up. "Umm, yeah. What exactly are this party's 'designs?' I mean, yeah, originally, we were searching for Clare here, but now that we've found her, what next?"

A thing happened then that none normally witnessed in their stone-faced captain: a wry, if slight, lopsided grin crossed her face. "Our designs: justice. Justice for the injustices that have been plaguing this land for centuries. Justice for the lives lost to _yoma, _Awakened, and the Organization alike. Justice for all those taken from their families and forced to fight for a broken cause. For those who were wasted in Pieta, we alone survived. I can't do this alone. I need the help of ones who have experienced the pains, sorrows, deaths, victories, and all that have been associated with the lives of our kind, and you all have been through just that. Are you _with _me?"

Eyes were wide at her declaration. This was rather unexpected of the captain. But then, she had been delving into the secrets of the Organization, and, according to her theories, succeeded in proving many of those true. The fact that the Organization had wanted all half-awakened warriors sent to Pieta on a suicide mission was proof enough of treachery.

To the surprise of all, heads snapping around to look her direction, Clare stood abruptly. "I'm in, however, there is one..."

"That will be dealt with, yes. If you became strong enough then, you can do it once more, but wait on it. Let us focus first on this objective. Perhaps by doing so, we will lure Priscilla and Isley out of hiding once more, and can then put all of our efforts in rousting not only them, but others as well. What say you?"

Clare's grim expression did not leave as she nodded, but almost, it seemed, when she turned to face Raki who had stood beside her, it seemed to soften but the slightest – barely noticeable. His visage, though, was no less determined. He nodded to his lady, she returning the gesture with one of her own, then faced Miria.

"If you're fighting for something as good and right as justice, then count me in. If the very thing I once looked up to as redeeming of mankind from all _yoma_ is the enemy as you say, then I'll see their downfall completed as well."

Deneve shut her eyes and stood as well. "I have followed you thus far, fighting at your side. I don't think abandonment is an option. I'm in."

Helen was a little more hesitant, but seeing her friend rise, she wasn't about to let her go in all by herself. "Well, someone's gotta keep you all outta trouble. Plus, I'd probly die of boredom anyway. Guess I'm in."

Miria then hopped down off the boulder, drawing her sword all the while. "Then it's settled. Five warriors. One goal." She extended the weapon. The others formed a circle, doing the same, Raki included. "We are the Ghosts of Pieta."

They broke, and began their trek. For the most part, silence prevailed, but occasionally, Helen and Deneve whispered amongst each other. Naturally, Miria lead, with Clare and Raki taking up the rear. At a certain time, he took the opportunity to speak to his lady. Remembering what she had said earlier, he intended to reconcile that.

Her face a mask of emotionless stone, Raki leaned in slightly to speak, whispering as he did so. "You said you neglected to cut my bonds." A pause. "You're too hard on yourself, and don't need to be. I could've cut them too, it's just that I was only half-conscious, and half-aware of what was going on. That fact that you didn't draw attention to me probably saved my life. Keep that in mind," he assured, giving her shoulder a light squeeze in the same manner. Again, as before, that warm sensation washed over her momentarily.

"Thanks," came her response.

"Water under the bridge, right?" he prompted.

A nod from her, then, "Yes. Water under the..."

She didn't finish. The ground split beneath her feet, and it was all she could do to dodge the mass of tentacular appendages that shot out from beneath, threatening to skewer her like a slaughtered pig on a spit. They instead shot out to the nearest target beyond her: Raki.

He held no reservations this time, though he had still been recovering. It was time to put his troubles aside and let everything fly. The mass flew at him with reckless abandon, but he was extraordinary in his abilities, those taught to him by the Silver-Eyed King during those travels with him, as well as his experiences with Clare. One, then two, then five were sliced by his broadsword, a blur of metal. A grimace of rage adorned his face, his eyes narrowed in grim concentration.

The monstrous things seemed to recede back into the earth from whence they came, defeated for the moment, but that was not the end. Several more, in various other places shot out, sending him, Clare, and the other Claymores reeling. Out came the famous blades as all five of them regrouped. The _yoki _that was emitting from this particular beast was strong.

At the hind of those appendages rose, out of the ground, earth and road breaking (as the thing was apparently under the road they had begun to make their way off of) as it did, a bulbous body with the head of a vaguely human shape. From its looks, it was male, probably from centuries ago. It roared in thunderous laughter.

"_Well, travelers, welcome to my domain! I am delighted to see that a human is in your party; perhaps you all would care to join me for a luncheon and awaken so that we may feast on his flesh?" _Its mocking laughter resounded once again, throwing its head back.

"_Split! Helen, Deneve: flank it! Raki, Clare: keep those appendages at bay! I will have its head! __**GO!"**_

All went according to Miria's strategy. Helen took its right side, bursting through mass after mass of tentacles, slicing them in two. The thing, however, seemed to be able to regenerate them rather quickly. Nonetheless, Deneve was undaunted when one wrapped itself around her waist, and two shot out at her chest, meaning to impale her. Not so. Twisting hard to her left, she used her first blade to slice the captor appendage, then the other to halve the ones that were meant to deal the death blow as she made her way down.

Clare cried out as she ran forth. Slimy, death-dealing appendage after appendage rocketed at her, but to no avail. Raki was hot on her heels as he sliced those to bits, his broadsword arcing back and forth. Even though Miria had commanded them all to specific tasks, they all knew that if she failed and was somehow killed, one of them must take up her torch and kill the thing. Therefore, all were, despite their given assignments, making their ways slowly to the Awakened one's body, and ultimately to its head.

"_Is that it? Is that all you can conj – " _It did not have a chance to finish. Miria growled as she leaped for its head. Its golden eyes widened momentarily, but narrowed as determination crossed its face. It was not about to be beaten by some cheeky little woman. Its maw opened wide, and several knife-like projectiles shot forth, barraging Miria. It was too difficult to move out of the way at normal speed, so a Phantom seemed in order.

She began to reach into the deep vestiges of her own _yoki_ to give herself a burst, just enough to perform one. However, that did not happen. Something, a deep gate that had been blocking..._something_ seemed to burst at the seams, and snap. Out flowed something _like_ _yoki, _but at the same time, was not. Miria felt the burst of super speed that she normally felt when performing the Phantom, but this time, it was diffferent...

"_Wha...?" _the monster inquired, puzzled a moment when all that its projectiles hit was a ghost. But it didn't last long. Its head arced to a strange angle and Miria's sword plunged deep into what would have been its left _trapezius _muscle. Purple blood spewed forth from the wound like a thick fountain of warm goo. The thing cried out, but it was short-lived. In a motion that was far too fast for its hefty-looking size, it lifted one of its large, tree-trunk-sized arms (those at the end of which were hands that toted the many tentacle-like fingers) and batted her away.

Helen saw this, and growled. _"Damn thing! Eat shit!" _

"_Oh no, little girl, I prefer human flesh and innards," _came its retort.

"_Deneve!" _Knowing what the other was about, the defensive warrior immediately jumped into the thick of things. Slashing this way and that, Deneve sliced masses of the appendages right and left, crisscrossing her blades as she did so, providing a relative opening for her friend. As the Awakened being prepared another assault, Helen's arms, themselves, shot outward, wrapping around the thing's arm, that is the one that it had raised to bat away Miria.

"_Now, Deneve!" _she cried. The stoic warrior knew she did not have much time. She zipped this way and that, racing to her goal. She made to rush up the length of the immobilized arm, and scissor-slice its head clean off in mid-flight. The beast, however, was no simpleton. Seeing her design, it yanked Helen forward and to the left. In her flight, she slammed into Deneve, causing the two of them to get tangled in the mass of tentacles. To their misfortune, some of those appendages ran them through, causing them to grunt, coughing up blood. They weren't, however, about to give up. Still gripping her two weapons, Deneve sliced and slashed until she was free, then, in a brave maneuver, freed her friend from the beast by launching herself through the air, gathering all those appendages that held Helen in place in the crossing of her blades, and slicing them all at once in one mighty blow. Helen tumbled to the ground, but regained her feet (and her sword, as it had dropped from her grasp) sharply.

Clare itched greatly to use the Quick Sword technique to rid them of this nuisance, but restrained herself, knowing that to do so was folly. Raki was faring quite well, slashing and hacking his way behind her. Funny that he wasn't in front of her as he normally would have been, but then whenever they faced one of these, she would always take the forefront. No harm would be risked to her charge.

Grunting as another mass of the slimy things danced about him, Raki gasped a few in his left hand, and sliced them apart, as if they were nothing. He wondered vaguely if the beast felt stupid, being sliced apart by one of the very creatures it fed on...

Until it lifted its other arm (right arm) and batted both he and Clare aside like rag dolls. Clare got to her feet instantly, he not quite so quickly, but quick enough to avoid another onslaught. Through all of this, where was the leader? He couldn't see Miria anywhere...at least from his vantage point.

Abandoning that thought, he continued to pursue Clare as she made her way ever closer to its weak point. All he knew was that the head was the way to go, and removing that was imperative, especially in the case of one of these. Chopping and hacking all the way, he received little in the way of wounds, while the Claymores seemed to be sustaining more. Why was that? Odd. But then, he didn't possess the aura of _yoki_ they did, so perhaps that made it harder for the creature to target him? Plus, its attention was divided on two fronts, a very dangerous thing to do.

_Exactly what we want, _came his thought as he downed another projectile. He and his lady were close. She leaped up. The killing blow was imminent...then she fell. Raki's heart sank to the bottom of his being. Was she dead? It looked that way, several knife-like objects protruding from her body. The thing rose its hand to deliver the killing blow. Clare could be killed, and it was now up to him fulfill his own charge to protect her. With a burst of speed brought on by adrenaline and a strength he didn't remember possessing, Raki growled as the Awakened being's death-dealing hand plummeted to give just that to his lady. As he was running, a phantasm appeared behind, then ahead of him. It was rushing at the monster's head once more. Miria was back in! Renewed vigor, Raki wasted no time in his designs. Miria distracted the beast just long enough.

Next thing, its whole right arm had fallen completely useless to the ground, violet liquid spurting from the wound where it should have been. It cried out, but not briefly this time as Miria also gouged a hideous wound on its back, down the length of its spine. That one rendered the remaining limbs lifeless, at least until it regenerated, which would take no small amount of time. Helen and Deneve, on the left limb, made mincemeat out of that.

Clare struggled to her feet, using her claymore to support herself as pain of her wounds became more of a dull throb. Removing the knife-like things, she would let nature do its work. She watched in what would come the closest to amazement as Raki, after having severed the arm, rushed back toward the Awakened one, and (literally), taking a flying leap, ran up the length of its hunched – and injured – back, and plunged his broadsword deep into its neck behind its skull.

"_GRAAAAAAH! No, please! Spare me! Spare me death, and I will give you all this land, and fight with you! PLEEEEASE!" _it whimpered pitifully. It must have been humiliating that its death was being dealt by a human.

"Y'think we're gonna buy that _garbage?" _Raki was in no mood for games. Removing his sword, with a cry, he, in two mighty chops, removed the Awakened being's head. Gurgling noises proceeded from the stump of its neck as it fell to the ground, and all its remaining limbs twitched in defiance of its severed brain stem. Its violet life-blood flowed from its wounds like unstoppable rivers. The young man lunged off, and landed in front of his baffled lady. He snapped his head to one side slightly, his own neck popping comfortably.

Her brow raised. "Nothing but a few bruises this time?" She shook her head. "How the hell...?"

He tapped the side of his head with one finger. "I learned from last time, and you remember how bad shape I was in after that, eh?"

"Well...yes, but...this?"

"Y'know, kid, had we been makin' a game of this, and there were hordes, that would _still _only count as one," piped a panting Helen. Nursing one arm, she had her claymore replaced. Deneve seemed just as calm as ever. Miria approached from behind the monster. All eyes turned to her.

"Good work. We made a quick job of this one, and Raki has definitely proved his mettle." She eyed him. "Don't get cocky though."

"Ahh, one question," chided Helen. Miria merely raised a brow in her direction. "Where in all the torturous fires of _hell _were you?"

Again, that rare, slight, wry grin adorned their leader's face. "Ladies, gentleman, I have made a very poignant and important discovery. It will assist us greatly in the coming months."

All were attentive now. "My friends, I have found a way to use my ability without the use of _yoki_ emissions whatsoever. I believe," she looked at each one of them. "that those of you who wield _yoki _are also capable of learning this technique."


	6. You Have Mine as Well

**A/N: Again, this chapter was written on the smartphone, so I ask that any grammatical and spelling errors be overlooked. **

"Not so. Not now, not _ever."_ The elder's eyes maneuvered from one Claymore to the next, his gaze burning into them. Leslie couldn't quite keep herself from fidgeting slightly. Anabelle's own gaze wavered ever so slightly. It was upon Eline that Rimuto's gaze became something of a glare.

"Failure was never an option. It is yet still not an option, and yet you let those witless _upstarts _escape? Over some foolish warrior code, some _game? _We do not play games, Number Six. When ordered to carry out a task, it is to be carried out _to the exact manner in which it was issued." _To the shock of all present, the man stepped forward and slapped the woman audibly. Her head reeled to one side. Turning to face him once more, her eyes burned with rage.

"Let that be a lesson to you: _do _you not be lax or even creative in your ability to follow orders, no matter how diligently they are followed. _Do you understand?"_

"Clearly," came her cold, terse response. Eline's fists balled. She wanted no more than to pound him. Though her visage remained calm, her silver eyes burned with rage. Having been struck, she wanted no more than to lash out and crush the vermin's skull.

"And you, Rimuto, will cease to ruin the morale of our warriors by improperly disciplining them," a calm, commanding voice chided. Forth stepped a man that none of the Claymores had ever seen before. The elders parted obediently for him. What in the gods' name was this about? He toted cropped red hair, an equally red beard. His height exceeded most of the others', as did his build. His presence alone was enough to command attention and authority.

"I am _not _in favor of such medieval practices. They are not conducive to the betterment of the performance of our warriors." He glared daggers at Rimuto, then graced Eline with a softer gaze. Her anger did not leave. Their eyes remained locked for a few moments before the red-haired man spoke.

"I am Varth. I have been observing you for quite some time. You are an intriguing one." He approached her, slow, ponderous steps his tread. Her fists tightened. Almost it seemed she would strike him at any moment, but it never came to pass. She did, however, not let her gaze waver in the least as he stopped within arm's length of her person.

"I don't believe that all those sent to Pieta have been accounted for. For the most part, we know the names and ranks of many we sent and have since retrieved several more. These whom you've had an encounter with might be further remnants of that generation."

A pause to let his words sink in to an otherwise expressionless Eline, then, "I'm rather certain that you can accomplish much, Number Six. If those other warriors are former servants who were sentenced to death, "ghosts" if you will, then we nee every bit of information about them - their ranks and names. This can be discovered by the marks upon their swords."

"What are you saying?" came her inquiry, her hands relaxing at last.

"I am saying that I need you to retrieve their swords...even if it kills them." His confident air was almost sickening, and yet it was so calm, it seemed almost reassuring. "What say you, Eline? Will you perform this task?" A gracious smile adorned his face.

Moments of eternity passed, then, "Yes, I will."

"Good. You will take Anabelle and Leslie with you, and set out immediately." With that, the tall man turned on one heel without saying another word.

"Lord Varth." No reply. "My lord!" He didn't so much as glance back at Anabelle, who had taken it upon herself to let them all know that their overseer had been killed and that his blood had been the color of _yoma. _Rimuto addressed her instead. Was there something the elders were withholding?

"What is it, Number Three?"

"Our overseer when we were sent to capture Number Forty-Seven... He was killed by the rebels, and..." She hesitated.

"And?" he prompted.

"His blood was that of a _yoma," _Eline finished.

**CCCCCCCCCCCCCCC**

She had been away for a time now, her thoughts lost in focus. She hardly seemed to notice her reflection in the water's surface as the river gurgled by. So intent was Clare in her objective that it was minor to pay attention to what could otherwise be trivial things. Fourteen days had passed since their encounter with the Organization's lot, and no sign of them had been heard of or seen since. For that, Clare was relieved.

Her task was simple and straightforward: to snag as many fish as possible without the use of her _yoki, _yet still utilizing the inhuman speed her right arm possessed. How, though? How could she possibly _hope _to utilize such ability without emitting _yoki? _What would it take? Miria had miraculously figured hers out in a matter of minutes. She was now able to execute the Phantom as many times as needed without tiring, all while keeping her _yoki _suppressed. Then again, Clare reminded herself, their leader at one point _had _been Number Six, but over the years had grown beyond that former rank. Clare, for all her strength as a half-awakened warrior able to face and defeat her mortal enemy, would be a little longer in improving.

Then a realization like a sledgehammer against iron hit her full force. Duh. What had kept her from thinking of this before was now beyond her, and she shook her head slightly, her eyes shut. Her thoughts were drawn once again to Pieta, that doomed city, and the equally doomed warriors sent to their deaths. Among them were several Singe Digits, including Numbers Eight and Nine, Flora and Jean respectively. Jean had pledged complete loyalty to Clare, and had ultimately paid for it with her life. However, it was Flora who Clare's thoughts were drawn. Or rather, the ability she possessed that had won her the rank of Eight.

The Windcutter. If she recalled, _yoki _emissions were absent with this one.

Clare's eyes shot open, resolve painted in their gaze. Her claymore had been shoved into the ground nearby. Rising from her crouch at the riverbank (fish could wait), she took up her weapon and replaced it at her back. She did not, however, let go of the handle. Shutting her eyes once more, she receded within herself, deep within. Her concentration unwavering, Clare searched for that spark, the one Miria had spoken of. Her sword arm was tense, the muscles taut and bunched up. How had it been done? What had been Miria's secret? Or was it that same old principle that always seemed to hold true no matter how strong Clare's achievements: that she was too weak and too slow?

Then she remembered a most viable and important fact: the woman who had been something of a mother figure to her was her flesh and blood. As well, Teresa of the Faint Smile had been the absolute most powerful of their kind to exist, not emitting any _yoki _at all when it came to _yoma, _and perhaps ten percent when facing Awakened beings. Sometimes. If Teresa, who lived on in Clare, could match _yoki _emissions using little or none of her own just by reading them, what was to stop Clare from doing the same? Granted, she did not possess the other's bottomless well of _yoki, _but she definitely had the same ability in that regard.

An extremely rare wry grin tugged at the corners of Clare's mouth. _Only you, Teresa, _came her thought as she relaxed her arm, but kept her grip firm on the handle. Her visage returning to its serious nature, she readied herself for her first run with the Windcutter. Shutting her eyes once more, she took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Her eyes shot open. Silver was their hue.

It looked as though her sword and sword arm never moved an inch from their places, but the tall grasses of the plains in a broad circle around her were cut to ribbons in seconds. The disturbed air all around blew through her short hair like a torrential wind, but she received no harm to herself from the technique. Not only with her inherent ability to read _yoki, _but as well the acute control she had over her own (hence being able to awaken only her limbs), she found that learning this technique was easier than she had previously thought.

Finishing the circle, nodding in satisfaction at both her handiwork and the absence of _yoki, _Clare removed the claymore, jabbed it into the ground with an audible _thunk, _and returned to the river's edge to snag fish. Kneeling, she merely placed her hands in her lap.

First one, then two, then five, then eight, and nine were piled up next to her. Her brow furrowed at the smell, but she was certain Raki's cooking would change that. Despite the fact that she ate little, what she did consume of his making was superb.

_Raki... _Her thoughts wandered to the young man. How he reminded her of herself once upon a time. Kindness and genuine concern for her well-being prevailed his very existence, as if he lived for nothing else. He seemed everything she was not, and that both infuriated her and endeared her to him the more. What prevented her from returning what he so readily gave? What was it he wanted from her, if anything? Was it love he was seeking after? She could not give him love, or rather such that he supposedly sought after. Or could she? Somewhere, in the deepest depths of that stone-walled, steel-gated heart of hers, she wanted no more than to repay him every wit. Perhaps she did love him, but fear ever gnawed at her. If they were to be together, their joys would be shattered by the Organization's treacherous evil, and evetually, whether any of them would have it or not, she would awaken from old age. She did not wish put him through that.

Nevertheless, there was something, _something, _that kept her from outright refusing his small tokens of affection. Again, a realization hit her that perhaps would change her outlook on things between Raki and her forever: that something was her human side, her three-quarters human side, that had been dormant for so long until these fateful words were spoken when first they met:

_"You're no different from any of us."_

She realized that he had given her a gift, a gift that all Claymores either shun or accept with open arms - Raki, through his love for her, had begun her on the road to once again recovering her lost humanity. The revelation caused emotions unnumbered to rush through her all at once. Her heart began to pound. Her hands began to tremble. Tears, hot tears of who-knew-what began to seep out of the corners of her eyes. How unbecoming! How...human. But something inside bade her to not resist.

A sob as she buried her fair face in her hands, that being contorted into a grimace of emotion. Her emotions were out of control, but her thoughts lingered on one thing only. Who else in all the world would ever be so charitable? Clare resolved, through hot tears and sobs, that she would live for no one else. She could think of no other way to repay or show gratitude to the man who cared for her more than anyone else.

All this as she repeatedly whispered, _"Raki, I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." _That was her human side speaking, to the highest definition.

After that harrowing experience, which lasted for the space of an hour, Clare rose, wiped away the tears, replacing her claymore and gathering up the fish, and headed back to their camp within one of the few clumps of trees on the otherwise bare grasslands. She did not have the heart to tell anyone about the experience, except perhaps Raki, so instead got a small fire going. Clare was under the impression that the young man could sense a plight of sorts from her, as whenever their eyes met, is gaze took on one of worry.

"Will you cook these, Raki?" came her question on one such occasion, referring to the fish. More than anything, it was to break the awkward silence that pervaded between them.

"Uhh...sure, of course. Filet or fried?"

"Whatever you want. I'll enjoy either."

She was about to go her way, but he stopped her. "Something's bothering you."

Hesitation, then, "It's nothing."

Her charge gave her a sidelong glance. He was obviously not fooled by her words in the least. "Your mouth says one thing, Clare, but the rest of you says something else, and that it's not sitting well. You can tell me about it. You know I won't judge wrongly."

"I know but they might," she whispered, relenting. "Elsewhere, but let's eat first. Are you not hungry? I caught two extra for you, in case the one wasn't sufficient."

His eyes lighted. "You didn't have to. Thanks."

"It was the least I could do," came her reply. His brow furrowed at that.

"Least you could do?" came his puzzled inquiry.

"To repay you," was her hushed response.

He didn't quite know what to say to that. What did she mean "repay?" As far as he was concerned, he hadn't done much to merit any reciprocation. All he had done was shown her kindness and been charitable to her. It was true that he loved her, and he treated her so as much as she would allow, but if she didn't reciprocate his feelings, he didn't mind really.

A shrug, then, "Alright. Want me to help carry some of those?" He indicated her load with a nod.

"Yes," came the most surprising answer. "If you would."

"Certainly," he said, flashing that boyish grin.

Sharing the load, the two of them made their way into camp. Helen's head shot up at the smell of dead fish. Thoughts of warm, well-cooked, fileted goodness filled her mind, and her mouth watered. She had always taken a liking to filet over fried, but that would have to wait until they all decided to agree on something.

"Food's here," Clare announced. Helen's excitement mounted. "Raki is cooking."

"Filet or fried, guys?" came his inquiry.

A half-hour later, nine fish filets were prepared, and smelled delicious. Each Claymore received one, Helen and Raki, three. The steaming things were moist and promised tantalizing pleasure to the taste buds.

"Dig in," the young man declared.

"Oh gods!" a surprised Helen exclaimed. "This is so damn good! I'm _so _in heaven. Ummmmm!"

"Hmm, not bad," came Deneve's reaction. Miria merely nodded her approval. She wasn't one for loud exclamations.

"You never disappoint, as usual," chimed in his lady. She gave his shoulder a squeeze, and meant it.

"Thanks, all of you," came his gracious reply.

Raki had retreated from the group a little distance later that night, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his time with Isley and Priscilla, and how much he had learned from them. Then was brought to remembrance his times with his lady, Clare. Ah, such rough, intense, monumental times. And yet, simple. All he had had to worry about (for the most part, aside from keeping out of reach of _yoma)_ was what to cook for the two of them next. Now things were different. He had grown and matured, and with that so had his love for her.

Little did he know that she was on equal terms in that regard, only that she had refused to acknowledge it. It was at that point in his train of thought that she about made him jump.

"May I join you?" came her whispered inquiry.

"Oh! Uhh, sure, Clare." At that, she sat easily next to him, though closer than normal.

"Sorry I startled you like that. You seemed to be deep in thought, and I am curious as to what," her smooth, monotone voice projected. There was something else, however, something...

A slight blush, then, "Ah, just reminiscing on old times. Y'know, when I was much more..." Again waving his hand in a circular motion, he couldn't quite find the right words.

"Emotional?"

"Well, yeah. I was gonna say cry-baby, but emotional works. I did cry a lot, I admit." He shook his head. "And I worried more than I should've; hell, gray hair ought to be on me already." A slight chuckle.

That almost-grin came to her face. What did she have to hide? She hugged her knees to her chest, leaning her head against them. This would be it. It was now or never.

"I cried a lot, too, you know," she said. "When both parents were murdered by a _yoma, _then I was dragged around like a broken rag doll - a plaything without meaning, Teresa taken from me, and Jean killed by my own hands; I wept bitterly." A long pause as those words sank in. Her voice was hushed as she spoke, "Even earlier today."

"So that explains things. What made you sad?" he questioned.

"It was a mash of things. I felt sorry for myself, and felt utterly selfish at the same time. Yes, I am," she said, rebuking what he would have said. "All my time as a halfbreed has been filled with vindictive rage and vengeful feelings toward one being. I cared for no one, loved no one; only the Organization mattered.

"Until you came. You once told me that I was no different than the rest of humanity. That phrase at the time made all my reasoning stare, but now it's clear: you saw me for _who _I was. I had, to date, thought of myself as no more than a monster. You did not see that, even when I threatened to awaken in Rabona, even - foolhardy a move as it was - as you embraced me when all my limbs were awakened as I stood ready to deliver the killing blow to Priscilla. You saw me, and if I'm right, _still _see my human side, and nothing else. Is this true?"

Raki was speechless at first. After a few moments, he spoke. "Yes, it still holds true that I see Clare, and not Number Forty-Seven."

"Which is _precisely _why I feel to repay you for that. You gave me a gift that my kind can only _dream _of ever receiving."

She went silent. "What gift is that, Clare? What can a human possibly give a Claymore?" came Raki's question.

"Just that: my humanity. That is the greatest gift you could have ever given to me. For that, I am in your debt, and am grateful beyond measure."

They remained silent for several minutes. The sky was awash with stars and constellations. Somewhere afar off, the rushing of the river where those fish were caught could be heard. The air was cool, the grass fresh. The hills rolled away like waves in the distance.

"You ever take that in?" he asked at length. She shook her head. "I have given the beauties of the land we live on little notice, as other things have occupied my attention...that is until now," came her reply as she slid her left hand into his right. She squeezed slightly, the which he returned.

"It's nice, then to enjoy this view with my lady," his voice low, almost a whisper.

Hers equalled that as she asked, "And...do you love your lady?"

He was glad it was dark. His face was bright red, his heart pounding at a new pace. That was an unexpected question; far out of the blue coming from her. However, an answer was expected, so he wasted no time.

"Yes, Clare. Always."

He didn't see it, but a content grin crossed her face. "Know, then, that you have my love as well."

She surprised him yet again. She turned his face to hers and brushed her lips against his several times. Wrapping arms about each other gently, they let the kiss linger for some time before parting.

"Always?" she quietly asked.

"Always," came his whispered response.

They parted from their embrace, but hands did not unlock. That they had finally achieved this level of companionship was, quite literally, a dream come true. There were no more secrets to be held now about their feelings for one another, only honest, open, truthful companionship. They would have it no other way.

"You ought to sleep, Raki. You're going to need it," she urged.

"I know. But I don't think sleep will come tonight. Not after this."

"Then sit with me awhile. Should sleep take you, I'll stay where I am," she promised.

"Fair enough," said he as he once again took her in his arms and held her to his bosom, her head resting against his beating heart. They remained that way for much of the night until sleep did take him. He lay down, she kneeling, his head resting in her lap.

For the first time in her almost constantly miserable life, Clare had tasted of the wellspring of joy...

**A/N: More added, yay! Anyway, I just got your review, StuffedLion. Thanks for the correction. Oh, and as far as the smartphone deal is concerned...I am a music composer, and I mainly use my computer for that. It's not that I **_**can't **_**use it to write, just...yeah. It's easier if there are separate entities for separate types of projects, at least for me. But, if it'll make it easier for the rest of y'all, I'll start using the computer. ^_^**


	7. The Slaughterers

Two days had passed since the experience between Clare and Raki. To date they had told none of the others of it, but they had a feeling that it was suspected. Often, they would find any excuse to be together, whatever the circumstances. They did not know how long it would be before the party arrived at the headquarters of the Organization, therefore it behooved them to spend as much time with each other as possible.

Nevertheless, though, the mission continued to remain their primary focus, their budding relationship aside. The party's travels led them at long last to the end of the plains to the aforementioned woodlands at the feet of mountains that jutted skyward like knives stabbing its blue back. Ironic that they were to do just that themselves. Taking to the cover of the shady pines, the Ghosts, as Miria had so coined them, continued to make their way south. Once they passed beyond these mountains, they would turn gradually west and north. After going that direction for a time, they would cut west and take the Organization from its back door.

At least that was the plan Miria had laid before them. It seemed sound enough, at least to the rest of them, seeing as, thus far, she had succeeded in most of her doings. The only thing now was to remain hidden. Avoiding roads and paths were their best bets, as well as skirmishes with the Organization's lot. That was _if _they somehow knew of the Ghosts' location, which they likely didn't. The reach of their enemies would have been far indeed if they could find them where they were.

There was a slight air of tension among them, however. Each time they stopped to rest, it seemed the more expedient to move along. Raki only ate because he had to, not truly enjoying the food he cooked. Clare became somewhat worried for her man, but there was nothing for it. She was not about to let her feelings get in the way of the task at hand.

"Lady Miria, I'm curious – about how long do you project this whole trek will be?" came his question at one point, breaking the awkward silence. It seemed to be on everyone's mind, because the tension visibly relieved.

"I'm not sure... Could be at least another ten or twenty days, as the crow flies, but I can't be certain, Raki," was her response.

He nodded. "Gotcha."

Within three days time, they had begun to skirt the base of the mountain range, looking for any sign of a way either through or around. The sooner they got through, the better; the longer it took them to achieve their goal, the better prepared – so Miria had stated – the Organization might be for their onslaught. That would not be good if their mission was prematurely cut off.

Clare's mind was burdened by something she wished to tell Raki, but she had not the heart to speak it at the time. It would be most inappropriate, thought she, to burden him with worries of the future and what time would entail for her. Instead, she hung back to hike at his side, content to be with him. She would live for him, just as Teresa had sworn for her sake. The difference was that she would do all in her power to _live_ for him. She would not die as long as they both breathed the air of life.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, not oblivious to her tense facial features, expressionless as it was.

"Ah, I'm just thinking on the past," she half-lied. _Damn you, Clare, be honest with him, _came her inner chastisement. "Teresa had said something very poignant to me before she was murdered. She said that she would, from that point on, live for me only. She died with that promise."

Raki gave her shoulder a light squeeze as she continued. "I wish to do the same. For you, that is, but I will _live, _Raki. I won't die with that oath as she did. As long as I draw breath, I will accept no other fate." Reaching up with her right hand, she placed it atop his left, still resting on her shoulder. Raki could hardly believe that the woman he had come to love was treating him like this. Likewise, she was in awe that she would ever behave this way toward anyone. But for Raki, she would lay the world at his feet.

At long last, they found another resting place, and Raki took the opportunity to relieve himself. When he returned, he found the Claymores once again gathered together. This time, however, they seemed in the manner of observance. He joined them silently, taking his place next to his lady. Crouching, he looked her way, intending to make eye contact with her. No such luck. Her gaze was locked to the north and west.

She had, however, acknowledged his presence, and leaned slightly his way. Whispering, she spoke, saying, "You understand that we are suppressing our _yoki, _yes?" A nod from him, and she continued, "Despite that, some abilities are still available to us. For example, I can still use a similar technique to the Quick Sword – the Windcutter. Just as well, because of what – or rather who – is inside me, I – though my aura be suppressed – am able to sense _yoki_ just as well as if it wasn't."

"Yeah? And...what do you sense?" came his inquiry, he seemingly perceiving what was coming.

"_Yoma. _And several of them. They are located about two clicks north and east of our position." Then she turned to face him. "There are at least twenty of them, and above that, they are roaming in a pack."

"Oh." Raki had never heard of that before. _Yoma _traveling in packs...that was an anomaly. Sure, when the opportunity presented itself, they attacked in numbers, but not organized. This was news indeed, and not good news. But those vermin didn't daunt him. Not in the least.

"Well, I'm sure if they attacked us (or vice-versa), they wouldn't stand a chance," he said, that boyish grin adorning his face. Clare found that expression rather endearing. The thought was short-lived, however. There were more pressing matters at the moment.

"Perhaps, but there is something about them that seems...out of place; not normal. I don't like it." The feeling was something of sickening.

"What do you propose, Miria?" was Deneve's question.

"If we let them come to us, we could ambush them. However, if we attack them, we would still have the element of surprise. Our _yoki_ being suppressed as it is, I don't really see any reason why we should be hesitant to attack head-on. We could still catch them off guard, which would give us great advantage. On the other hand, if we were to ambush them around here, they would stand absolutely no chance of winning or gaining any sort of upper hand. Of that, I am certain." A pause, then a surprise, "I, though, want to know what you all think. Which course of action are you all in favor of?"

"Oooo, c'mon, we can take 'em!" came an eager Helen's declaration. "A bunch of dumpy _yoma? _C'mon, don't kid around! What's to stop us?"

"I'm not so sure..." mused Deneve. "I contend that if we were to attack them head-on, the possibility of harm would be definite. Plus, Clare _did _point out that something was different about these. I say we ambush the hell out of them."

Raki shook his head. _"Yoma _are _yoma _are _yoma. _That's all there is to it for me. To lie in wait while they stalk more and prey that they perceive to be inferior seems to me somewhat counterproductive. But that's just me. If I had my way, I'd charge right into that damned pack and show each and every one of them who the dominant race of this world _really _is." All heads turned to face Raki, an unusually dark expression on his face.

"Mind that you don't get overconfident. You may have killed that Awakened being back there, but remember: we had its attention on two fronts," Miria warned. He merely shrugged.

Her gaze rested on Clare. The other seemed lost in thought, but her usually unreadable face was etched with something like worry. "Clare?" The other woman's eyes met the leader's. "Your decision?"

Clare worried that it would be foolhardy to rush in, colors flying, with reckless abandon. These were not typical _yoma, _or so she could perceive. But if they waited around for much longer, that would delay their trek the more. Embarking on an assault on witless _yoma_ would already grace them with such a delay, but to lie in wait while the creatures, by some miracle, crawled their way just so they could rid the world of twenty of their ilk – it would be rather pointless. It seemed that everyone was hell-bent on destroying them.

"I am with Helen and Raki. I say we attack them head-on, and waste no more time than is needful." Raki gave her a look, which she returned with a slight nod, the which he returned.

"So. It seems that the majority of us elect to assault them. Very well. Count me in," Miria said, finalizing the end. She had only to come up with the means.

"Clare, can you pinpoint their exact location?"

"North and west of here there is a clearing where they are bunched. I wouldn't be surprised if that was a camp of some sort."

"All around that area, the trees grow thick, it seems, making it easy for a surprise attack. We will have to determine what exactly we are up against first, since you mentioned there was something different about them?" Miria queried.

"Two in particular. They're not...animals, it seems."

"Animals?" chimed Deneve.

"What do you mean by 'animals,' Clare?" questioned Miria. All eyes rested upon Clare, awaiting her answer.

"What I'm saying is that unlike most _yoma _- who are generally nothing more than ravening beasts; animals - these I sense don't seem that way... I don't know...they're just...different."

"Uhhhh, how?" urged Helen, her curiosity piqued. This was news indeed.

"I can't be too sure. They seem...more...cunning, as far as I can tell. Not Awakened beings, just _yoma, _but somehow more than the usual lot. Like I said, I'm not completely sure."

Silence from the all, then Miria spoke once more, saying, "Nonetheless, we will meet these things in battle, and vanquish the lot of them. Are we all agreed?"

Helen leaped to her feet. "Oh yeah!"

Deneve was a little more reluctant, but didn't question her leader's decision. "I guess I'm in this madness after all. Not likely that we'll die by the hands of mere _yoma, _I just don't think it wise to go to them." She shrugged. "Ah well."

Raki stood followed closely by his lady. _"Yoma-_killing time, I guess. Let's do this."

"Yes, to the very last," came an unusual response from Clare.

"So be it. None shall stand when we're through with them," Miria stated.

They set out immediately, making their way cautiously to the place in question. Their _yoki _safely suppressed, the only problem they could possibly have would be the amount of noise they made in their approach. That would not be hard to correct, though. If they played their cards right, they should be right on top of the _yoma _and done with them within a matter of minutes if they acted quickly. There was no doubt as to that course of action.

Within a quarter of an hour, they were nearly on their target. Miria signaled for all to draw swords, and spread out to surround them in a deadly vice grip formation, squeezing the life out of them, so to speak. It was then that Clare spotted the sources of the strange _yoki: _two particularly large _yoma. _But these were not like the rest. Thick armor covered their bodies, and helms guarded their heads. In their burly hands, they toted swords with wicked blades that might do more than leave a deep cut or gash. They towered over the other _yoma, _which were little more than the common rabble that fed upon humankind.

"So," whispered the leader of the Ghosts, "these are our strange, cunning _yoma, _eh?" She signaled once again, and all made ready to pounce on her mark: a phantom within the camp. The air was heavy with the intensity of their anticipation.

It was then that one of the lesser monsters' heads shot up. He sniffed the air a few times, looking around warily. A red flag went up in all the attackers' minds. If they were caught before the onslaught, things might not go quite as planned. Nonetheless, they remained taut and ready to strike.

"What do you smell?" the first of two large armored ones inquired.

Two more whiffs, then, in a raspy voice fraught with phlegm, "Man flesh."

All _yoma _in the camp froze. "So. Shall we dine, boys?" All roared in triumph, then, "Search out the rascal and bring 'im alive! I want to personally – !"

He didn't finish; couldn't because his head had rolled away about six feet from his already-toppling body. All in the camp looked in horror to see a woman with a sword that was as tall as she was gripped in her right hand. Purple blood decorated its blade where she had shaved off the head of the first Slaughterer.

An uproar as three others and a human man leaped out and all five as one began hacking away. _Yoma _after _yoma _fell without raising so much as a finger to these death angels. That human kid was dealing death just as well (if just a tad slower) than the Claymores, but nevertheless, he was giving no chance to his victims.

It was when Clare faced off with the second Slaughterer that she began to have a new opinion of _yoma, _or at least this type. Drawing both its vicious weapons, it rushed her full throttle. She barely had time to avoid its first few attacks as she prepared a torrent of the Windcutter. Doing so, she let it fly, and the beast rocked back on its heels. When she was finished, however, it rushed her once more, a bulldozer of a thing. Its attacks were so strong, each hit caused her whole body to jolt from the impact of merely blocking. Knocking her claymore to one side, it prepared to slice her at the midsection, but failed when Helen's arm, claymore drilling all the while (that was new), shot forth, and threatened to skewer the monster and shred it to ribbons. Faster than that, though, the Slaughterer batted the whirling blade aside, and made to halve the stretched arm, but Deneve was right there, preventing it from doing so. Wielding its two weapons against the stone-cold warrior wielding her two blades, the sight of watching the two was unreal: it was like some crude version of a dance from some fairy tale, except that in this routine the two partners were at each other's throats.

The Slaughterer then had two, then all five of the warriors on it at once, fighting for purchase, and gaining it. This beast was not real in the least! Where in the lowest hell did this thing come from? Who or what could have conjured such a monstrosity? The Ghosts, up to this point, had not fought _yoma_ on this sort of level; it was as if they were fighting Awakened, yet it was a gangly _yoma _clashing swords with them!

"All of you, back!" cried Miria. "Clare, do what you did back then and take it from behind! I've got you head-on, bitch," she growled at the monster.

It sneered. "Says you, little girl." She rushed at it, and almost laid on its swords, it seemed. When it swung to remove her head, all it caught was air, and what looked like her. Clare, from behind, reading its every move, like she had all those years prior, calculated, and struck out with the Windcutter. Its armor, she found, was weaker on its back, clearly making it offensive in its ways of battle. She also noticed the weaknesses in the armor around the neck and at the joints. Targeting every possible one of those, she let fly the deadly technique.

Deadly accurate, she succeeded in removing the Slaughterer's left arm, and severely damaged its right leg. It cried out, pain etched in its crude visage, but undaunted, it would not be downed by a bunch of women. It battled the leader, Clare hanging back a moment, waiting for another _opportune _moment. She didn't need one. Miria removed the creature's other arm, a series of furious assaults leading up to that, and the stabbed it through the gut.

Defiantly, the armored _yoma _(or what was left of it) staggered forward, growling in her face. She could feel its hot breath (which stank of rotted human flesh) as it leaned uncomfortably close. Having had enough, with a mighty upward thrust, she halved the Slaughterer, and ended the fight. Looking over their handiwork, the Ghosts were both satisfied and disturbed by the experience. Never before had they experienced a common foe as powerful as that.

"I suggest," Deneve chimed in a drab tone, "that we _not _embark on such pointless endeavors in the future. That's just me, though."

"And it is a sound suggestion. At all costs, let's avoid fighting until we reach our destination. Our full strength will be needed at that point," came Miria's concurrent response. The harrowing experience would not be repeated again. They hoped to not have to fight one of those Slaughterers again, if it could be helped.

As they continued along the mountain range, Helen broke the awkward silence. "What do you suppose that thing was? I mean, it looked, for all we know, like just another _yoma..."_

"And for all we know, it could have been an Awakened being in disguise," Deneve answered.

"Don't you think it would have, y'know, awakened to fight us? I mean, that's kinda what they usually do...isn't it?"

"Not always," Miria stated plainly. "If their disguise suits the job well enough, then there would be no need to awaken. I don't, however, think it was an Awakened being. My guess would be that it is a new class of _yoma, _one that was bred to be able to stand up to, fight, and possibly kill our kind."

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, whaddaya mean 'bred?' Are you saying these things are...manufactured?" queried a dumbfounded Helen.

"Through my investigations, I came across records – logs, accounts, and such – that pointed to this conclusion: _yoma_ are not natural creatures. They are creations."

That drew puzzled looks from everyone. "We are merely experiments, my friends. Test subjects to prepare the way for the ultimate warrior that will rid the world of the Organization's mortal foes. From those demonic beasts is taken flesh and blood, and _yoma _are created to serve as a way for the Organization to continue to be funded."

She stopped in her tracks then. Turning to face her comrades, she spoke in a slightly hushed tone. "All for nothing but the upper hand, on a continent that hardly anyone would know to exist. _This _is the world that we live in: full of vanity and pride. At the root of it all is power. Despicable!" Turning sharply on one heel, she resumed her position at the lead.

_In that, you err. It is also full of love and joy, Miria, _Clare wanted to say, but she restrained herself. A heated argument over morals and values was the last thing any of them needed, and would only lower their morale. Instead, she fell back beside her man, resting a reassuring hand upon his arm.

"Don't let her words affect you. She has seen much," she whispered to him, as close to a comforting gesture as she could get.

"I get that," he replied, equally quiet, "but now I'd like to pay whoever's in charge of the whole thing a visit, and let him have it."

"As would I, but I am loathe to make such haste," she cautioned. "Patience. Soon enough we'll get our opportunity."

"I'd have no one better by my side," he said, meaning every word.

She felt it. "As would I. As would I."

The Ghosts continued on their way, but did not hasten too much. Little knowledge had they that soon their fortunes would turn drastically...


	8. Number Six

"What d'you think it was all about?" asked a still-puzzled Leslie. They had been traveling for days, doing their utmost to keep up with the rebels. It had not been easy, as they had their _yoki _skillfully suppressed. That made it extra difficult for Anabelle to track them. The three Organization warriors had to rely on physical signs of their quarry's trail instead.

"What was all about?" came Eline's counter. "There have been lots of strange things going on since our encounter with those vermin."

"I'm talking about our handler. When we notified Rimuto, he was speechless, but also had the look like he was holdin' somethin' back, y'know? Like he was hiding something or whatever..."

"Nonsense," Anabelle chided from the lead. "There are always things that they hide, things that we shouldn't be sticking our noses into. Now make yourself useful and help me find those damned tracking signs. I'm not one of those, that's for certain." The other woman made her way to assist the leader while Eline hung back.

This time, Hard Puncher was garbed in armor that more fully protected her, though still allowed for much movement. The knuckles of her gauntlets, as well as the knees of the grieves and ends of the sabatons, were studded. The Organization was serious about this mission.

Eline also toted something that no warrior ever would don: a simple, sleek helm* that would serve as a protection to her head, but it was not all that needful. It was meant more for intimidation than anything else. It was for missions such as this that she would don such heavy armor, and often it would be to her advantage.

They continued on their way, picking up small hints and signs: a broken twig here, crushed leaves there; those fools didn't bother to cover their trail! Nonetheless, the going was slow.

"How much longer will we have to scurry like rats scrounging their last meal?" came Leslie's complaint.

"Until your legs fall off and your throat bleeds from wear, if you keep that up!" replied Anabelle, exasperated. "I'm trying to find the quickest way to them; they're at least ten days ahead of us."

That silenced the other. Eline then sped up her pace, shouldering past the two of them. Was it her, or could she smell smoke? And...gods, something savory! It _had _to be them! For fifteen days had the three been searching, and they might have found them!

"I think that camp ahead is theirs," stated Eline. She motioned for the other two to take a look. They quickened their pace to see what was what. Sure enough, though the trees were thick, they could discern a camp. Through the thicket, five figures could vaguely be seen tending to various tasks. The scent of meat and spices wafted on the air, and teased the warriors' nostrils.

"Ten days, huh?" jeered Leslie.

"It was an estimate," retorted Anabelle. "In any case, we've a job to do. Let's kick some rebel ass."

"Yeah, I like the sound of that," eager Leslie said fingering her claymore.

"Eline, you ready?" the leader asked the tank of a warrior.

"Aye, I am," was all she said as she donned her helm.

"Alright then. Move out in a V-formation. I will take right point, Leslie, left. Eline, you will be at center. Don't stop the attack until the objective is completed, clear."

"Aye," came Leslie's dutiful response.

"Aye," Eline responded tersely.

They prepared to move out, making their way into their designated spots in the formation. Anabelle and Leslie took the two points while Eline hung back. The rebels might have improved some, but the Organization warriors had the element of surprise. It would be their turn to take their foes without them having a clue. Not in the slightest.

They neared the camp, and Anabelle signaled for them to spread out more. They watched from the shadows of the thickly grown trees, waiting for her next signal.

Raki had just finished enjoying his meal. The others, especially Helen, were grateful for his adept ability to turn something as gamey as deer into something wonderful. They were nearing the mountain pass, where they would need to use caution. They couldn't risk getting caught prematurely. Their mission would be for naught at that point.

He stood. Clare stood with him, a look of satisfaction adorning her silver eyes. He couldn't help but note how lovely she was, every time she looked at him like that. It was so endearing...

Hell broke loose.

Two Organization Claymores leaped into the camp, swords drawn. All the Ghosts shot to their feet as one. Their own swords drawn, they jumped into action. Five on two – shouldn't be hard. Recognizing the two as Anabelle and Leslie from before, they immediately divided into two groups: Clare, Raki, and Miria faced Anabelle, while Helen and Deneve faced Leslie. They intended to make quick work of these two.

"_Give them no quarters!" _cried Miria. _This time, we fight to kill, _was her dark thought. Immediately, she engaged Anabelle, the other's face bewildered at the fact that she executed a Phantom without releasing any _yoki _whatever. Nonetheless, the Number Three warrior was not about to be bested by an upstart. Her eyes narrowing in determination, she likewise engaged the former Number Six, the two battling it out in an all-out rampage.

What she was completely unprepared for was the human man's onslaught. Coming from her right flank, he executed a series of attacks that could have downed any weaker warrior. She had two on her – her attention divided – and thus didn't see the third assailant coming until it was almost too late. Too late, in fact. Clare executed the Windcutter in a powerful display of skill and focus, and open wounds appeared out of nowhere all over Anabelle's body.

Miria took that opportunity to move in for the kill. Anabelle was shocked and, and seeing that Miria meant to end her life, frightened at the same time. Miria rushed forth with a battle cry, and prepared to deliver a mighty downward strike that would halve the other from crown to crotch.

It didn't happen. A body flung into Miria and knocked her to the ground. An armored hand lifted her while the other pulled back and delivered a punch to the face that should have crushed the skull. Lucky for her, Miria was still Phantom Miria, and that strike hit air, but Eline's deathly calm face showed no signs of frustration.

Anabelle backed off as she knew Eline would begin her own onslaught. This would be interesting to watch. Meanwhile, Helen and Deneve were faring well against Leslie, who was tiring from all the times she had used her Corkscrew maneuver. She was barely able to keep up with Helen's drill-blade technique now, and Deneve's dual swords were keeping her hard-pressed on her toes.

That was until Eline came into the fray. Armored with the helm over her head, she gripped what would have been Helen's killing blow, locking her arm by the wrist. The other woman cursed, and tried to pull free, but Eline's grip was as iron as the armor she toted. Hard Puncher's _yoki_ burst to life as veins bulged on her arms. She used the added strength to fling Helen around and into a tree, knocking the other unconscious.

Just like that. She had been bested so easily! How was it so? Eline had held back before. She had "gone easy," as it were, plus had been unprepared. This time, she was giving her foes no quarters; it would be their turns to crawl. She turned her focus to her arch rival, Deneve, who twirled both claymores, prepared (supposedly) for her opponent.

"So thus we meet again, Hard Puncher Eline. Might I ask what you're doing all armored up? Is it all that necessary?" she queried, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, and you'll see why," she said, then rushed the short-haired warrior with reckless abandon. Deneve made to slash at her several times, but Eline ducked underneath those. She batted aside the rest, and once right up close, headbutted the other. As the defensive warrior staggered back, Eline grabbed her by the scruff of her top, and delivered a blow that again would have shattered any other's skull. It didn't, though, but instead sent her flying in that direction for about ten feet. She slid for another five, managing to grip only one of her two swords as she did so, losing the other. Deneve was about to recover, but Eline was on her again. Grabbing her again by the scruff of her top, she landed blow after blow into the stoic warrior's face, until at last she went limp, the other sword dropping useless to the ground.

Raki charged her from behind, a battle cry on his lips, but she side kicked him hard, knocking the wind out of him, and causing him to fly back several feet himself. Miria flanked Eline from the left and, performing once again a Phantom, nearly removed the other's head from her place at her opponent's right. Eline, however, was made of heavier stuff than that. She turned with all speed, and before Miria's sword could connect, she blocked it with an armored forearm. She followed that with a series of kicks and punches, dealing pain in each one. Miria hadn't the time to block a one, and so avoided instead, using once again the Phantom. All over the place: in front, to the sides, behind – she was everywhere, it seemed, around Eline. But she couldn't quite get past all that heavy armor, which frustrated her to no end.

Eline, noticing a pattern to Miria's technique reached out with blinding speed at one point, seizing her by the neck, and landing a blow between her eyes. The other, like the rest, flew back several feet. She scrambled to rise, but Eline was on her before she could. The current Number Six straddled Miria and her eyes took on the gold hue. Veins like no other bulged all up her arms, and then the tirade was unleashed. With a pounding, lightning speed that was unlike anything the Ghosts had yet seen from her, she socked Miria over and over likely hundreds of times. Open wounds could be seen where her ribs should have been, and her face was a bloody mess when Eline was done. She was, of course, unconscious.

A whirlwind hit her from behind, but all that could be heard was the clashing of metal on metal as the Windcutter sliced nothing more than small gashes in Eline's armor, albeit she covered her face. Rising, the quiet warrior spat to one side. So, the last one of them all stood before her: the one that had half-awakened last time.

"You can do this easy, girl, or I can pound you as I have your comrades," she said matter-of-factly.

Clare merely shook her head. Eline shrugged. "Your funeral," then asumed a fighting stance. Once again, though, she was baffled by that lightning fast sword technique. She wondered then what rank this warrior had once carried, having wielded such a potent move...

Eline rushed the other, intent on making quick work of her, just like the others, but not so. The Windcutter focused on those portions of her body that were still unarmored, and gashes were opened out of nowhere. Eline hissed at the pain, but recovered all too quickly. That lightning sword would be a challenge.

It was Clare's turn to charge. With a cry, she unleashed everything she had within her power. The Windcutter did not let up as it cut this way and that, making it difficult for Eline to see. More wounds were opened, bigger ones, and old ones were deepened.

"Gah!" the other cried out briefly. She jumped back a few paces, distancing herself from the monstrous storm of metal. _A straight charge isn't gonna work...yet. _Shutting her eyes, she released her own claymore, and made another mad dash. Holding the blade in front of her to protect her vulnerable areas as best as possible (a little successful), the flat of it facing the other woman, Eline rushed Clare once more. Once close enough, Clare brought her claymore to bear on Number Six. The two began to clash. A series of skillfully placed strikes, and Eline easily had the upper hand. The only trump card, it seemed, that this Clare had was that awesome ability to move her arm at insanely fast rates. They continued to clash: slash, parry, jab, slash, parry, slash; such was the nature of their conflict. That was, until Eline swept Clare's feet from underneath her. The other, now desperate, released another tirade of that damned lightning blade, but Eline predicted its coming, and acted accordingly.

Reaching through the torrential storm, she gripped Clare by the neck. The Windcutter died instantly. Lifting the other off her feet (Eline being a several inches taller than Clare), replacing her claymore, she awarded Clare with a blow that sent her flying. It didn't stop there. She rushed forth and seized her prey again – a headbutt. Grabbing her by the scruff of her top, Eline delivered another blow that rendered Clare on her back, and none too gently. Lifting her once more, Hard Puncher slammed former Number Forty-Seven into a rather large tree. Again, she half-awakened her arms, and proceeded to award Clare with the same treatment she had given to Miria. Blood spattered everywhere as each of the rapid punches landed with deadly accuracy. The last one was to her victim's chin, knocking the hapless woman unconscious.

Her armor covered in blood, Eline turned to observe her handiwork. Satisfied, she nodded. A job well done.

"Well, done, Number Six. Let's take their swords, and get going. Better to be on the move before they wake up. The elders may likely promote us," a nearly-healed Anabelle said.

Leslie grinned. "Sweet. I like it. Good job, girl."

"It was nothing," stated Eline, little emotion in her voice.

Gathering up each of the weapons that belonged to the former warriors of the Organization, Eline flung them over her shoulder as the three of them took off. It had been easier than she had imagined, but then they _had _been taken by surprise. It mattered little, though. The fact was that they had succeeded in their objective. That was all that mattered. The warriors loyal to the Organization moved along on their way...

...Little knowing that one of the Ghosts had not been put down. In fact, he had watched them without notice as they left, remembering where they went, what they did, and what they had said.


	9. Taken Without a Word

Raki rose slowly, his limbs trembling. Looking about, he could plainly see that his comrades had not done well. He knew that anyway as he had watched them get pummeled by that heavily armored Claymore. It was not fair in the least. He needed to help them somehow, but again, he felt inadequate and insufficient. On top of all that, his companions' swords were missing, likely stolen by those Organization bastards.

_What to do? What can anyone do in the face of such reckless __power__? _were his thoughts as he searched the area for Clare. He found her, a bloody mess of a fallen warrior. His heart sank deep; was she dead? No, Claymores were made of firmer stuff than humans. But she looked so terribly beaten...

Kneeling in front of her, he dared to lift her face to his. She surprised him when her eyes fluttered open. Confusion, then recognition etched themselves across her face. She knew her Raki well enough. Awarding him a weak half-grin, she coughed up blood thereafter. Raki's brow furrowed.

"D-Deneve..." she rasped.

Understanding immediately what she meant, he nodded and approached the defensive warrior who by then had healed most of the more serious wounds. Kneeling beside her, he spoke, though not loudly.

"Deneve, can you hear me?"

"Y-yes, boy. Why? I'm a little occupied at the moment," she struggled to speak.

"Right, but when you have enough strength..."

"That's the plan, yes. I will do what I can."

After five more agonizing minutes of waiting for her to heal herself, Raki's relief mounted as Deneve rose, and made her way first to Clare, who had been damaged the worse off of all. Taking the other's face in her hands, she synchronized _yoki, _and slowly but surely, Clare's deep wounds closed. Her blood-ridden face was the only evidence that she had been beaten to a pulp previous to Deneve's regeneration.

Moving on to Miria, Deneve healed that woman's wounds as well. Waking slowly, the leader struggled to remember at first where they were, but after a few moments, memories flooded back in. Lastly, the defensive warrior approached Helen. Her head was cracked wide open, but she would live. The healing process began, and that wound healed, if a little slower than the others', but nonetheless, Helen was back on her feet in a matter of minutes.

Raki offered a hand to his lady, who took it gladly. Her face showed no emotion, but inwardly, she was relieved that he had suffered no serious hurt. It would grieve her to the core if he had been hurt or worse. The Organization would surely pay if they were the cause of Raki's death. Hang Priscilla at that point, if it came to it.

"Clare?" His eyes betrayed his ever-present concern.

She blinked. "Uh, yes?"

"You alright? You look real grim; kind of dark in the eyes."

"I'm always that way. You know this."

"Well...more than usual," came his reply.

First studying the ground, then back to meet his. "I'm just relieved you weren't hurt."

"Heh, they wouldn't dare hurt a human...would they?"

"They _did_ threaten to kill you, if you recall," she responded dryly.

"Oh...yeah, that's right. I kind of wish I was strong enough to face them... Er, stronger, that is. If only I..."

"Don't talk like that." Her response was so sudden, it surprised him, made him blink. "You _don't_ want to become one of us, if that's what you are thinking. Our life is a miserable one. All emotion is lost, all care – gone. Do you want that for yourself?"

He was speechless. "Uh...I... That's not what I was thinking, but no, I don't."

A slightest of blush came to her cheeks. _Good going Clare. _"Oh. Forgive me then. I didn't mean to lash out like that."

He chuckled in good nature. "Don't worry about it. I know why you said it," was his reply as he leaned his forehead against hers. His love for her had only increased over time, as he knew the same had happened for her as well.

They ended their small display of affection, however, when Miria took point and once again made herself heard. They were all weaponless, save Raki alone, and needed to get those most-important things back. Otherwise, they were sitting ducks for the Organization.

"Raki, I am certain that because you have no _yoki_ signatures, you ought to head this particular mission. You say you were trained by a great warrior yourself; did he teach you the ways of stealth?"

"Ahh, yes, at least for my part. I can't say that I'm any good – "

"Indeed. If you can head us into their camp, we should be able, with your help, retrieve our weapons. I'm confident you are up to this challenge, Raki. What say you?"

"Ah, um...sure," he agreed. He had never taken the lead on any one journey, much less a militaristic mission, and the thought of failure gnawed at him like a poison. He didn't want to let his friends down. Not in the least.

"Very well. We should be ready within the next hour. At that point, we will be ready when you are." Miria's confidence in him was undaunted, and that made him the more nervous.

"Right," he replied.

An hour later, the Ghosts made ready to depart. Raki left momentarily to relieve himself, then returned. His sword being stuck in the ground, he replaced it at his back. Looking from one pair of silver eyes to another, he knew they were depending on him. That made him the more nervous, but at the same time, determined to succeed.

"Here's my plan. It's not much, and it's pretty simple..."

An hour and a half later of trailing their targets, as the sun was descending below the western horizon, the Ghosts could see a pillar of smoke rising sky-high some distance ahead. Raki nodded and signaled that that was indeed their adversaries' camp. They made their way quietly to the edge, keeping to the shadows. Raki nodded to them to keep behind while he made his way in.

From his vantage point, he could see the claymores laid on the ground near a darker portion of the camp. Perfect. Now he just needed to lure the one called Leslie into his grasp...

Spotting a large rock, he lifted it in one hand and hurled it at the tree which the swords were nearby. It hit the thing with an audible _thunk, _and just as he had hoped, it got the enemy Claymores' attention. They were absolute in their wariness, but soon relaxed when no immediate threats presented themselves.

"Leslie, dear, would you mind investigating that?" Anabelle inquired.

"Tch! Am I always the one to do such things?" came her complaint.

Anabelle gave her a sidelong glance, at which the other warrior deferred. Checking the area around the swords, she noticed nothing in particular. She then wandered into the woods a little, just to make sure. Just what Raki wanted.

_Not a smart move, _he thought as he reached from behind the unsuspecting Claymore, clapped a hand over her mouth, and with a knife he had pulled from his side, stabbed her in the upper back. She couldn't even gasp for the wind that had been knocked out of her. Twice more he let her have it, and she fell limp to the ground. He then signaled to the other Ghosts that that part of the mission was a success, and that they begin to move in.

Anabelle noticed. Rather, noticed that Leslie had not returned. Odd, it was not like her to just disappear. Perhaps she had gone sightseeing (for which she would be chastised), or worse... No, that couldn't be it. Either way, it was not like her to be out so long.

Then hell broke loose.

A large rock made contact with Eline's head, knocking her out cold. Those that the Hard Puncher had wasted earlier that day (in good health, too), leaped into the fray. And to her utter chagrin, that human man seized their claymores and tossed to them their respective weapons. The audacity! The nerve!

Anabelle took up her own sword. "Boy, you will pay for this!"

"I don't think so. One of your comrades is dead, and the other unconscious. You're outnumbered, outclassed, and outdone. Might as well surrender."

_How could such a simple, child's plan have worked? He's a _human_ for the gods' sake!_

"_Raki, look out!" _cried Clare. He barely missed being skewered and butchered by Leslie's corkscrew. She was still bleeding profusely from the few wounds he had inflicted, but was otherwise well. Well enough to fight.

That's why what happened next baffled all of them. None could believe it. _"I've about had enough of that damn corkscrew bullshit, and enough of YOU! YAAAAH!"_ It was the strangest thing: none of the Claymores had ever witnessed a human move the way he did. He was no Claymore himself; perhaps it was pent-up rage mixed with hyper-adrenaline? Or just good timing? Who knew. All they _did _know was that just before Leslie could finish her maneuver, Raki struck out with the mightiest of downward strikes, a slash that could hack an Awakened being in half...and next thing they knew, Leslie's upper body was a small distance from her legs. Red blood spurted outward in all directions, showering her killer and the undergrowth of the woods alike in the immediate area.

Life passed from her with nothing but a surprised look on her face. All stood in shock. A mere human had slain a warrior of the Organization. Anabelle took note of that, and made it a point that from that point on, she would have to somehow take him back. If he could execute such an amazing feat in his current condition...

"That one was for Clare. You're next, then that armored one," he threatened.

"My, what dark threats, boy. You will regret those words."A wry grin, and she gripped her claymore in both hands as the circle of the Ghosts closed in for the kill.

Then it just stopped. None of them could move. At any time now, she could kill them, but how? She could only control _yoki _when that was her primary focus, as well as when they weren't suppressed. What new devilry had she worked on herself?

"Each and every one of these could die at my hands, boy, should I so please at this moment. But I could care less. My focus is you," she hissed, rushing him.

"_Raki!" _Clare cried. She tried to escape the grip of Anabelle's control, but it would not budge. It was like iron. _Crap! _she hissed inwardly as she witnessed the worst: Miria was approaching her, sword raised. It was just like in Pieta.

"Gah! No! This isn't me!"

_Dammit! _Clare couldn't take another moment of it. Executing a gout of the Windcutter, she broke the hold Anabelle had on her momentarily, and rushed the other woman from behind. Apparently, that had also broken the hold on the others, because they also joined the fray. Number Three whirled on Clare, and just as she was about to strike, the Manipulator seemingly "gripped" her by the throat and began constricting. Clare's weapon dropped to the ground as she fell to her knees, choking sounds escaping her lips.

"_Leave her alone!" _cried Raki. He rushed the other from behind, and with another downward slash, gouged a large gash in Anabelle's back. That was enough distraction to let go of Clare. By that time, however, Eline had risen, and had begun to engage Helen and Deneve, who by that time were not unfamiliar with her patterns and stylized martial arts way of fighting.

Miria, Clare and Raki engaged Anabelle. Often, the Manipulator would grip the other Ghosts in her iron fist of compelling _yoki _control, but Raki provided enough of a distraction that she often was forced to let go. Deep wounds were forced on her person by his doing, and she was becoming more and more annoyed with it. She was, however, also intrigued by his strength. Thus far, whenever a skirmish between her group and the Ghosts had taken place, he had been knocked unconscious, or just plain rendered useless.

After about the fifth bout, she tired of his meddling. She had had enough. Whirling on him (as he was, at that point, to her right), she executed a series of attacks, so fast, so ferocious that he could not keep up. Right before his eyes, his sword's blade was shattered when he tried to parry the last blow. Rushing around behind him, she gripped him by the hair, and pulled his head back, exposing his neck. She brought her claymore dangerously close to his trachea.

"_All of you cease this madness! Another move in my direction or his, and his throat will be severed!" _Her eyes narrowed, particularly at Clare. "And don't think I won't do it. He has been labeled an exception should things get to that point, little girl. I know you and he have feelings for each other. I can see that filth in your eyes, the way you look at each other and throw yourselves to each other's rescue when one is in distress. Know this: he is mine now, and I am taking him back to the Organization. There, his fate will be decided. _Come no closer, or he dies!"_

The Ghosts didn't move another inch, although Clare desired more than anything to shred that Anabelle to bits. She also knew that the other would hold no reservations in killing her man. He dared not struggle or strain against her hold, especially with that wickedly sharp blade threatening to open his throat.

"You, all of you, go your ways. I am taking the young man. Should I catch any of you following, I will have no problem ending his life," said Anabelle, her voice cold.

"Don't listen to her!" cried Raki, ever brave. "Don't worry about me, I'll get - " He wasn't able to complete his sentence as his captor knocked him unconscious with the pommel of her claymore, she having removed it from its spot in front of his trachea. As he fell forward, she caught him and flung him over one shoulder (or in this case, shoulder and part of her upper arm).

The Ghosts could do nothing as they watched their foe slink off into the darkness. The rustling of leaves and bushes faded as Anabelle receded further and further away. Outrageous was the best way to describe the situation.

"Why are we just standing here?" Clare inquired. Though her voice was calm, a hint of desperation coated her words. "Why do we not go after them? Does it matter that his life may be forfeit?"

Miria whirled on the other Claymore. "Did it not get through to you? If we _did _go after him, then yes, his life would most _definitely _be forfeit. If you care about him so much, I wouldn't take to rash actions."

_First Teresa, then Jean. Now Raki. Who else am I going to lose? Who else will be taken from me? _

"I... It's not... He's in such danger, and this time I fear he would not be able to handle it on his own..." came her dejected response.

"In that assumption, you're wrong, Clare," the leader stated, nodding to the dead Leslie's two halves. The flesh had already begun to stink of rotting _yoma. _

"If he can kill a single digit in one blow, I'm sure he can handle another."

"Not likely," came another monotone voice. All heads turned in Eline's direction, she heading after Anabelle. "Your little man will have both her and I to answer to. Don't think for a _moment _that throwing a rock at me will do you any good a second time, Rubber-Arms," she jeered, flinging the insult Helen's way. The other growled, but Deneve placed a restraining hand on the other's shoulder. Eline then bolted off in Anabelle's direction.

The remaining Ghosts were silent. Though they were for the most part a serious bunch, Raki's light-hearted personality had always managed to do just that: lighten their burdens, if somewhat. Now that he would be missing, that feeling of security would also be absent. This would especially be true for Clare.

Fists balled, she, in a vastly unusual display of rage, whirled and delivered a kick that could shatter Eline's armor to the dead Leslie's top half. The thing flew at least five feet. Falling to her knees, dropping her claymore, Clare - in yet another unusual emotional display, but this one of anguish - cried out briefly at the top of her lungs. She had failed the man she had come to love.

Meanwhile, Eline caught up to Anabelle and a still-unconscious Raki. They traveled in silence for ome time before any words were spoken. The higher-ranking warrior seemed to what was on the other's mind when she finally spoke.

"Why don't we just tie him up and leave him?" was Eline's question.

"We must return with _something, _Eline, or our lives are over. Having him as the pilot specimen for the newest project should work out well, don't you think? If he dies there, then his little friends will come running, likely lead by his girlfriend." She said that last word with a hint of disgust. For any Claymore to love was heresy to her, much less to love a _human._

Eline shrugged. "Fair enough, I guess. But I'm still a bit confused as to the nature of this 'new project.'"

A wicked grin, then, "Once we get to HQ, you'll see. For now, though, let it suffice to say that the newest pilot experiment is something akin to..." a pause as she looked the other square in the eyes, then, "...perfection."


	10. A Living Example

**A/N: Okay. I rewrote this one. I hope it is pleasing to the reader. It was to me, that's for darn sure.**

"And...what is this..idea of yours, my lord?" came the surgeon's question as he and Varth strode through the grounds of the Organization's headquarters. The place was bustling with activity this day, as a new batch of trainees had been instated, and were now undergoing the rigorous work that would shape the future of their new lives. Two in particular caught the redheaded man's eye: twins that fought their opponents with perfect, synchronized movements. He returned his attention back to the question at hand shortly thereafter.

"Ah. Yes, we are going to renovate, my friend. You see, we as a whole – the Organization – have stagnated somewhat, and begun to..mmmm...atrophy? No, that's too strong of a word." He rubbed his forehead a moment, then said, "Ah, doesn't matter. What this land needs is a new class of warrior." Another pause, followed by a frighteningly jovial grin. "And we shall be the ones to give it to them."

"And...how shall we go about creating such a warrior, my lord?" the other asked, confused.

"Well, first allow me to expound to you the actual concept behind this warrior. You see, we've been fighting against _yoma_ and Awakened beings on this land for a long time. _Yoma _we need for obvious reasons. Awakened beings, we don't. I'm sure you are aware of how Awakened beings come to being?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then it may shock you to learn that I may have found a way to create a hybrid type warrior that is, quite literally, _incapable_ of Awakening. Isn't that _marvelous?" _The delight in his eyes was not hidden.

As if Varth's words had been a prophecy, they were fulfilled when the surgeon's mouth gaped wide, and his eyes assumed the same size as tea saucers. "My lord...! Uh..w-with all due respect, sir, isn't that what we have been trying to accomplish for the last 200 plus years? Countless times have we endeavored that feat, and every one resulted in utter failure."

"Ah, but none will compare to this time. In fact, you can rest easy, my friend. This new class of hybrid warrior will be able to use _all_ of their available reserves of _yoki _without Awakening whatsoever." He put up a restraining hand to quell the surgeon's protests. "I know what you're thinking, and it would seem like the farfetched imaginings of a madman, but hear me out. I submit this claim: each and every one of these new types of warriors will be comparable to both the offensive type and defensive warriors that we now create, possessing attributes of both. Now," he said, leaning a hand on a nearby rail, "the manner in which they will retain their humanity is twofold: first is the initial infusion. Following that will be another infusion, in which another human heart is fused with their own. They will retain their _yoma _abilities, but will not 'reach' or 'pass' their limits. In fact, their will be no 'limits.' it will be as if they had none to begin with. Using one hundred percent of their innate _yoki... _The very thought of what that could accomplish is _glorious!"_

The surgeon did not speak for several moments. "My lord, may I speak to you frankly?"

Varth scoffed. "Of course. If I didn't, there would be no way of knowing both sides of the fence, so to speak."

The other nodded curtly. "Don't you think that concept is pushing the barbarism a little too far?"

Varth merely smiled. "I suspected you might say something to that effect. It is a little more...medieval than what we have been doing all along, I'll admit that. However, think on this for a moment: what is the whole purpose behind our creating these warriors? Isn't _that _intent as barbaric, if not more so, than what I just described? Think about it for a moment. We are at war on the mainland, and over what? Land and power. To the good-hearted commoner, that is traitorous and condescending – a waste and disregard for human life. It would be subhuman to them, should they find out about it, and they would not hesitate to act upon feelings of enmity that would most certainly arise against us."

Varth's openness about the Organization's true intentions was clearly making the surgeon uneasy. "But...wouldn't cutting a person open, fusing _yoma _with them, then fusing another human heart to theirs; wouldn't that seem to the common folk just as evil?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, my fellow, but what you fail to see is that they still, to this day, don't know the _exact _procedure by which 'Claymores,' as they call them, are created. If they found that out, they would shun us, and withhold their children from us like maddened dogs. If they found out, however, that they were nothing more than part of a global-scale experiment, they would rage and seethe against us to the point of doing all in their power to destroy us. You don't want that, do you?"

Varth's colleague shook his head. "Neither do I," Varth continued. "It may sound crazy, but it is _not_ impossible. If we can accomplish this feat, my friend, I think we will _finally _gain the upper hand. What say you, eh?"

The surgeon left Varth's gaze momentarily, letting his own pan across the training grounds. He watched those two twins with some interest before responding. "If this proves successful, and we do gain the upper hand; if all that you say is true – even that this madness is possible – then I will undertake it, as much as my right mind screams at me to object."

"Then think with your left," Varth joked. The other sniggered, and Varth slapped him on the back.

"So, my lord, shall we use one of these as a prototype?" inquired the surgeon.

A thing happened then that did not happen oft: a very nasty, wicked grin crossed Varth's face. "No, Dann. I don't think I want to test my hypothesis on one of these pretty things." Having been gazing at the trainees momentarily, himself, Varth then faced his trusted surgeon. "Dann, I want to bring back the males."

When he awoke, he found himself in a stone-ridden place – dank, cold, and musty in the air. Every joint in his body ached, especially his head, which throbbed as if someone was pounding it with a sledge, over and over. For a split second, he panicked, not knowing where he was or why he was their, until memories, like a flood of thought, overwhelmed him.

Raki realized then that he was in some sort of cell, imprisoned. His hands were bound tightly with strong chords, the wrists raw and bleeding. He tried the bonds, but sure enough, they were far too tight to wriggle out of. He shivered against the cold, and curled up in an attempt to keep warm, but it was no use. There was no keeping the chill out of his aching bones. He lay on his left side, back turned to the cell door, that being securely locked in place.

He turned over when he heard metal-shod footsteps approaching from down a hallway. They stopped at his cell. A woman carrying a torch eyed him, studying him, sizing him up. He didn't pretend to do the same: her curvacious body, long blond hair, silver eyes; she was a Claymore alright. Which brought to his mind this question: where was he imprisoned?

"Nice view, isn't it, kid?" she jibed. He immediately recognized the voice as that belonging to Anabelle. Hateful Anabelle. "It's too bad, really. When you're done here, you'll _never_ get any. Not from any one of my kind, not from any human, gods forbid, and _definitely_ not from your little girlfriend." Her mocking tone sparked a twinge of rage within him.

"Go to hell," he spat defiantly.

She snorted. "Been there, kid. And y'know what?" she crouched so that her face was level with his. "You're goin' there too. Pretty soon here, just you wait." The smug grin on her face incensed him the more, but he did not lash out or act rashly.

She continued in her rhetoric. "And I'm gonna take you there personally. Excited?"

"Where am I?" he demanded, ignoring her taunt.

The smug smile on her face never left. How he hated it, and her arrogance. "In hell." She paused for a bit, letting that ominous statement sink in, then spoke. "Anyway, you are to begin training tomorrow at dawn."

"Wha – training? I don't – !" He was cut off, his protests ignored.

"And I," her eyes narrowed. She studied the contours of his own body – his muscles, the way they rippled under his taut skin; lustful thoughts entered her mind then as she spoke. "I...will be your trainer." She leaned on one hip, that being flared out slightly to one side. "It'll be great, kid. I'll show you all the..._tricks_ of the trade." Giving him one last glance that promised evil things, she sauntered off into the dimly-lit hallway and made her way out.

_Oh great. I've got the privilege of being both beat _and _seduced by a Claymore. Could my fortunes have been any better? _He rolled his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. He would have to be completely rested if he were to face a Claymore on the morrow. His joints still ached, and his head still pounded, but that would not matter to her. He would have to give his all if he would survive this ordeal. He lay down and after a half hour of tossing and turning, a dreamless, lightless sleep took him...

He was awoken the next morning by a kick to the ribs, resulting in the wind being knocked out of him. Raki rolled over to see an armored foot planted just two inches away from his face. Instantly, he knew who his assailant had been, and remembered that he was to be trained for some reason or another. And _she _would be his trainer. He could attempt to fight her now, and make a break for it, but when he felt his wrists rub painfully against strong leather chords, his memory again reproached him for forgetting that he was a prisoner and that his hands had been bound.

"Wake up, kid. It's time to go. Come on. Up!" She made ready to kick him again, but, like lightning, he sprang to his feet, landing in a crouched position – lightning fast. It was Anabelle alright, by the looks of the features on her fair face. She snorted again, stifling laughter.

"I'm sorry, but you look so retarded, standing there like that. Like some buck-naked indigenous native, crouched and ready to strike." She then burst into peals of laughter. Raki risked a downward glance. Sure enough, his clothing was not where it should have been: _on _him.

His face likely _glowed_ red hot, but he was glad for the dim light of the prison cell to hide his embarrassment. The more this woman mocked him, the more he hated her and her Organization. What did they want with him anyway? What purpose did capturing him serve? He needed to escape, and soon.

Recovering, she spoke. "You're not saying anything, kid. Think you're too good to talk to me, eh? Think you're too tough of a man to face a Claymore? Oh wait," she pretended marked realization, "you've already done that. That must mean that you're not so tough as you look, kid. So tell me," she said, leaning back against the wall, crossing her arms, "what was it like to be in bed with a Claymore? Y'know, with your little girl-toy?"

That did it. Raki's anger peaked, and he cried out in a hot rage. _"Damn bitch, YOU WOULDN'T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT IT!"_ He rushed her then, but she proved her superior prowess as a Claymore by first dodging his attack, then awarding him with a roundhouse kick to the head causing him to fly back a few feet and slam into the far wall. In an instant she was before him, lifting him by the neck. She slammed him again into the wall none-too-gently. Her own anger was apparent by the feral look in her eyes.

"Listen up, you bag of _shit. _From here on out, _I _call the shots. Try to pull a stunt like that again, and you'll find those jewels of your rollin', _got it?" _The rather overzealous sincerity of her words was enough cause for him to agree.

"Y-yes," he rasped, his windpipe still somewhat constricted by her iron grip.

Her grip loosened slightly, just enough so he could breathe. "That's a good boy. You will follow me after I release your bonds, where we'll get you washed up and dressed. Damn, you stink." She waved her other hand in front of her nose. "If I put you down, will you be able to stand? I mean, that little stint back there was _obviously_ the result of an adrenaline rush, and just about anything is possible where that's concerned – _especially _if it has to do with a man and his sweet lady-love," she cooed mockingly. She lowered him to the floor, and was satisfied when he could stand on his own without faltering. Gazing at his facial features one last time, she gave him a sly grin, turned on one heel, and ordered him to follow.

She marched him through the hallways of the prison, and at long last, they exited into another maze of halls. How she was able to navigate such a place was beyond him, but somehow she did. Within minutes, she reached her destination: a room somewhat recessed in one of the smooth stone walls. She stopped and nodded to the door, clearly an indication to enter.

He did so, and beheld a tidy, if somewhat worn bed, a desk, a wash room, and closet. Strewn atop the bed were the type of garments worn by the Claymore warriors...only these were black. Lifting them to his person, he looked at the neck piece, the one that usually bore an emblem that was unique to the warrior. The symbol that adorned this piece of cloth was a straight line with two diagonal lines trailing off either side a little above halfway. Those faced downward.

He studied the cloth with some interest, looked over at an apparently-gawking Anabelle, who looked away quickly, then back at the cloth. It was then that a horrid, chilling realization struck him like Anabelle's roundhouse had earlier. Dread and panic settled in as the stark truth began to weave itself before Raki: the Organization had captured him in order to make him into a Claymore. They were going to do the unthinkable, apparently, and bring back the male concept...and he would be the prototype.

He dropped the garments, and stumbled back a few steps. "No...no..." he muttered. "They won't make me do it. They can't – I won't become a Claymore!"

Anabelle stepped inside, and slammed the door shut. "You won't, won't you? Why not, kid? Don't you wanna be strong enough to fight for your girl-toy?"

"I-I already am! I don't need this! I don't want this!" He was becoming desperate.

"Oh c'mon, kid. Y'never know what it might bring. Who knows, you might become the Number One of the Organization. You'd have all of us," she said, gesturing to herself, though in reference to all the other warriors, "wrapped around your little finger. And besides, I hear that the head of the Organization himself has something special in store for you. Oh yes," she took measured, calculated steps toward him as she spoke, "you've got a lot going for you, kid. So," she was inches away from him, "why don't you just...relax a little." That said as she gently caressed his face, then to his surprise, she planted a soft kiss on his neck.

Parting from that gesture (the which he knew held no sincerity in the least), she spoke, her voice soft, "All better?" When he said nothing in response, she continued. "Good boy. Now, why don't you wash up and dress. There's a lot yet that needs doing." She turned to leave, and let her hand linger upon his jaw until she was too far for the touch to remain, letting it slide delicately away. Opening the door, she spoke over her shoulder. "When you're a hybrid, kid...well, for one thing, I prob'ly won't call you 'kid' anymore. But also..." a pause and a deep sigh, then, "mmm, well, it doesn't matter right now." She then assumed the "boot camp sergeant" demeanor once more. "Right now, you have five minutes to get ready. If you're not done in five, kiss your posterity goodbye. I mean it, _move it! _I'm being generous by giving you five. I usually only give two, now _get!" _

He had five minutes to prepare himself. He was ready in three. He stepped out the door, and was greeted by Anabelle. Her cold visage had not changed in the least, but almost Raki found himself liking this more commanding version of her better than that other, sinister, seducing version. Almost, he shuddered at the thought of it. But then again, what was there to like at all? She was a ruthless killer, the very epitomized, stereotyped image of what the commoner viewed a claymore as.

And soon enough, he would be joining their ranks.

Once again, Anabelle lead Raki through a maze of halls that ultimately ended at one central chamber. She opened the door and motioned for him to enter. Doing so, he found himself in a rather large room with little light and no windows that he could readily note. He was brought before several cloaked and strangely dressed figures who looked none-too-friendly. One, a tall man with red hair and beard, stepped forth and addressed the young-man-soon-to-be-hybrid. Raki had no doubt that was his fate.

He also knew the horror stories surrounding male Claymores, the ones that Clare had told him. She had made him swear an oath to _never_ go the route of becoming a hybrid warrior, and he had always thought that that would never be possible; it had never entered into his wildest dreams that _he, _of all people, would be chosen to pilot the Organization's male experiments once more.

_Inhumane bastards, _he cursed inwardly. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a rather warm and welcoming voice – the voice of a friend. Rather disturbing, had someone asked his opinion.

"Greetings, lad. I'm glad you've come this far; your resilience and determination are incredible! I am impressed." He spread his arms, a gesture emphasizing his words. Closing his hands back once more, though, Varth spoke, saying, "I assume you have guessed and second-guessed – perhaps even third-guessed, if there exists such a concept – why you are here, am I correct?"

Raki said nothing, but instead awarded the bearded man with an icy glare.

Which awarded _him_ a sidekick to the ribs from Anabelle. With a grunt, he fell to the floor, rage burning hot in his eyes at the humiliation. _"Speak when spoken to, dog shit," _she commanded sharply.

"_Anabelle," _came Varth's own sharp reprimand, followed by, "you will _cease _your medieval treatment of our guests. Ever, you push the limits of your tasks – not so much different from Number Six, Eline. I will see to it that you are flogged, your rank and standing in the Organization stripped, and that you are terminated if you continue this sort of behavior. I will _not _tolerate undue punishment within _or _without these walls, _understood?" _It was clear that he was serious.

Immediately, Anabelle's head bowed. "Aye, sir."

The cheerful smile once again returned to his face, but it soon took on the lines of concern as Raki did not rise right away. "Raki, my boy, are you hurt?" Varth himself approached the young man, still curled up, writhing slightly, on the ground. The elder man glowered at Anabelle who again bowed her head.

Lowering to a crouch next to Raki, Varth stretched for his hand. "Let's get you up, lad." The other figures in the chamber fidgeted and looked at each other, whether out of nervousness, embarrassment, or whatever else, Raki had no clue. He was, however, not about to let this _monster –_ this man, pretending niceness – get that much closer to him by assisting him to his feet.

Making to reach for the other's hand, Raki smacked it away and sprang to his feet. "I don't _need_ your help. I'm not your little puppet, you sick _bastard!" _

Varth blanched and stood slowly. In his peripheral vision, he could see Anabelle's fists clench and unclench. Returning his full attention to the younger man, he spoke once more. "Oh, come now, don't be like that. I was just trying to help. Isn't that what you want to do, lad? Don't you want to help people? Don't you want to make things right? Don't you want to protect her?" That last phrase was spoke slightly hushed.

Raki's eyes widened. "N – not like this. It's all wrong! If I become a Claymore, I won't be helping anyone but _you. _I won't be making _anything _right. The only way things would be right is if your life was nothing more than a memory – along with your damned Organization. I _won't _help fight a war that means nothing to me; nothing more than a power-struggle. I want no part of it. _None. _And as for Clare – I was doing just fine until volunteered to be the prototype of some insidious, subhuman, unforgivable _science experiment! _I _won't _serve you. I...I..."

"You what, boy?" Varth was fuming by this point. His cheerfulness had left. "It is clear that you know more than any of us had expected. That's unfortunate, both for us, _and _for you." Varth wasn't where he was supposed to be. In a millisecond, he was behind Raki, gripping a tuft of his brown hair. He jerked the young lad's head to the right. "Look there, boy. Tell me what you see." Any previous sign of Varth's warm, friendly nature had all but vanished.

Raki did as he was bidden, and before his eyes, he saw two figures, bald heads bowed, and from the looks of it, naked. Both were women, and looked as though they could have once been Claymores. "Two women."

"_Yes! _And what do you notice about them, besides their nudity?" demanded Varth.

Once again, Raki strained to get a good glimpse of them. One seemed to risk a glance upward, her silver eyes meeting his brown ones. His heart sank. They were completely lifeless; dead to any and all around them. It was as if their awareness of life and such had been entirely cut off.

"They're," he said, a grimace on his face, "they're dead..."

"_Precisely. _They were, each, lobotomized. They no longer think, are no longer aware, are no longer rational; all sense of individuality is gone. They are, in a sense, lifeless, and will remain that way for the rest of their lives. They are soon to be terminated, if you must know. Now," he said, shifting around directly in front of Raki, piercing his eyes with those intense blue ones, "that was done to them in penalty. They attempted to rebel against us. Normally, we just terminate the rebellious, but these were a special case. They knew _far_ too much information about us. As I said, normally we kill rebels, and it would make sense to kill these, _but_ there needed a lesson to be learned by any others who would dare decide to take on such a task. Does that make sense boy?"

Raki nodded. Varth released his grip on the other's hair, and steppd back a pace or two. "Keep that in mind...Raki, is it? You wouldn't want to see your dearly-beloved in such a sorry state, now would you?" Acknowledging the other's silence as comprehension and refusal, Varth continued. "Good, I didn't think so. I wouldn't want the same to happen to _you_ either – to be bereft of all that is _you, _just because you knew more than you should have. Take a good look at those two, and think about that. Then," the cheerful attitude returned, "think about this: if you agree to at least...give it a shot...try it out, I will make you a fine deal."

Raki's interest was piqued. That was enough for Varth. "You see, in exchange for your agreeing to be the 'pilot,' so to speak, and after the entire procedure is complete, including your recovery – which I don't doubt will be speedy – I will grant you emancipation, and you will be free to go wherever, do whatever, and live however you choose." The other figures in the room were about to protest, but Varth raised one hand to silence them.

Striding right up to the other, Varth placed a hand on Raki's shoulder. "You see, Raki, _you _will be the example. But here's the difference – and from here on out, we will no longer need _that," _he said pointing to the two lifeless, former Claymores. "The difference is that you are a _living_ example, to _all _warriors – and common folk alike – that the lesson _has long been learned. _What say you, eh?"

Raki hesitated a moment. He was still not quite convinced. "I will...feel no pain...if I agree?"

Varth chuckled. "Pain is inevitable, young lad. _But _since the very beginning, we have developed ways to...'drown it out,' so to speak. To 'water it down.' I cannot tell you _exactly _what you would feel, but this much I _can_ tell you: our ways of infusion have advanced _far _beyond what they once were." He smiled at Raki. "What do you think, Raki, my lad?"

Raki was silent a moment, then, "I don't think I can ever see this Organization as anything more than evil, but if I have to become a Claymore to protect both Clare _and_ myself from bastards like you, then I'll do what it takes. I just hope it won't take too long..." Raki could feel every fiber of his being _screaming _bloody murder at him to turn tail and run; that what he was doing was absolutely insane. But somewhere within his core, some quiet force – some voice, seemingly – urged him onward with this decision. He had to be going absolutely nuts, but it was now or never. It was do or die. It was his humanity, or Clare's well-being. Of which did he hold more care?

The answer couldn't have been more clear when he was knocked completely unconscious. So deathly unconscious, in fact, that he likely would not wake for hours. There would definitely be a primitive form of anesthesia applied to both deaden the nerves, and maintain the unconscious state, but in his mind's swirling, dreaming eye, his thoughts and feelings reached out to the woman he loved most.

Indeed, the answer rang clear as a bell – the knell of reckoning. And with that answer, he would lose what he had sworn never to surrender – not at any time in his entire existence. The answer – that is, to what did his heart hold the greater weight of care – also carried with it the breaking of that oath...

...and perhaps the severing of a most precious bond...


	11. More Than A Man

**A/N: Wellp, I apologize for the wait; as I've said before, college can be a drag sometimes. But hang in there, my friends. I'll get to my other stories (as well as this one) as time permits.**

_"Geh!" _came the involuntary sound as nearly all the air rushed from Raki's lungs when he slammed into the ground. It was turning out that, despite his prior beliefs about Claymores, the true light of those _animals _had become more and more apparent as his training (if it could be called that) had commenced in earnest following the operation. He had been both mortified and disgusted at the same time at the procedure, even more so when he was told different results during his recovery than were given beforehand. He was told beforehand that aside from the typical elements of the operation, his heart would be supplemented by a second so as to grreatly reduce the chances of Awakening. Instead, the flesh and blood were not exactly _yoma, _and the only heart that beat within was not his, and was neither human nor _yoma. _This Organization was sick on many levels, and upon finding out the unmatching results, he lost all threads of respect that had yet existed for it. At the same time, however, he gained a new level of respect for the Claymores (which he had been instructed not to refer to them as; whether or not he cared about that was another issue). They endured pain and hardship that none could possibly fathom. At the same time, however, Raki was fed up with all the hazing, pretended flirting, and mocking, and therefore lost nearly all respect for them. His anger and frustration only mounted during his training sessions with Anabelle; she treated him with little more respect than a wild dog, further crumbling his morale. At the very least, the stints the other ranks pulled were not so brutally abusive in their tormenting. So it was when she had knocked him to the dust, his rage mounted and he swore under his breath that one of those days he would make her pay. He was only one rank lower than she, after all.

To her, though, being third in the Organization apparently put herself in a position that made his rank seem mediocre at best, in comparison. She knew he hated the beating of the weak, and played on that. _Preyed _was more like it. She knew that at this point, she was superior. How he hated her, and she could see that, could read him like a book. A wicked smile crossed her fair face. _That _look was in her as she stared arrogantly down her nose at him. "Your anger gives you power, kid, but it's not always going to save you. There's something more inside of you than just base human emotions. I'm going to bring it out. Now _get up!" _She kicked him hard in the ribs, and he gasped again, pain ripping through his side like a torrential wave of acid. She about kicked him once more, metal-shod foot nearly making contact. However, the self-same set of inhuman reflexes that both frightened and amazed him at the once seemed to override everything else, monopolize his body, numb his mind, and take full and absolute control. It was as if some demonic, ethereal force, externally present, was now at the helm of his movements. Just as Anabelle's foot about collided again, those devilishly fast reflexes were triggered, and he found himself rolling to his left without quite knowing it followed a mighty leap to his feet, all in one motion that transpired within less than a moment. Brandishing his claymore once again, that which now seemingly possessed his body made calculations of each step and each motion of Anabelle's body, piecing all together into one whole that resulted in a defensive pattern against her oncoming attacks. Skill beyond his doing, he then weaved into it a series of offensive techniques that threw Anabelle off, causing her to rock back on her heels. That look of shocked delight—that one which often accompanied his use of whatever force now guided his movements—adorned her face all the while. The offensive continued without relent. Surprising to both combatants was the rather prolonged duration of Raki's reflexes and movements, which up to that point had only revealed themselves in momentary, sprint-like bursts. So intense and aggressive was this onslaught that Anabelle became somewhat disoriented and confused, lost both focus and footing. So fast were his stokes that within those minutely passing moments, Anabelle's own claymore was knocked careening from her hands where it stabbed the dirt some distance away. In yet another furious offensive, Raki executed a 360 degree wheel-kick which connected forcefully with Anabelle's left cheek. As intended, she was forced into the air and spun wildly to her right before landing hard on her face. Before she could even blink, sharp, cold steel (a sword blade) brushed against her neck. Blood trickled from her mouth. 

"Yield," Raki hissed, daring her to move. Instead, she smiled...almost sweetly. Awarding him a sultry glance, she spoke in near-adoration, saying, "Well done, kid." Risking it, she rose and received no resistance or further threat. "Or should I say...Dragonheart." Raising his claymore to the ready, he edged back as she approached deliberately. "I won't hurt you anymore," she cooed. As she did, Raki felt his hands loosen on the claymore. It dropped, then, useless as his disobedient limbs, now being manipulated by Anabelle's keen ability to control yoki. Mere inches from his face, her eyes half shut, she whispered, "I won't hurt you, because..." her lips were almost against his by that time, "...because, even as a 'heatless witch,' as you've called me before, I have a very human heart that beats..." Leaning in, the remaining distance closing, her lips met his. Awkward was likely the best word. Awkward and unfeeling, both. Her kissing held no love, no endearing quality. She was merely pleasuring herself, desiring that he join in, wanting him, lusting after him. He did not, however, reciprocate her feelings. Parting, she again whispered, "One day, you will forget that little broad and love me instead. She will die anyway, either from fighting or pining over you, it's inevitable. With me, you have...home. With her, you had uncertainty." She stroked his face as the effects of the earlier surge of power wore off. To his disgust and dismay, his spine tingled from the sensation. Was she causing it to happen, or was he just...? The touch lingered as she backed away from him until his face was out of reach, yet still she seemed to reach for it a moment, then let her hand drop. The look of adoration faded. The drill sergeant returned. "Now go get washed up; you stink of dragon! You didn't win, kid. You will never win, not while I'm around. Now move it!"

Replacing his claymore somewhat slowly, Raki walked briskly past her toward his quarters. _Says you, bitch. I'll never love a monster... _He stopped in his tracks. What was he thinking? First off, he, Anabelle, _and _Clare were no different in that they all were hybrids. To him, though, Clare was not a monster. To him, Clare was more than human _or yoma. _The woman that desired him now was no more than a tasteless whore. But then, how different was he from any of them? Sure, he was not exactly half-_yoma, _but he wasn't about to give in to the brainwashing and reeducation the Organization was putting him through. Not in a million years. He needed to escape. Soon. Returning once more to his quarters, he washed himself, and dressed in a new uniform. He did so somewhat quickly; he would not be caught nude by that hell-witch. Clare was on his mind. What would she think if they reunited? What would happen if she became upset and terminated what fragile feelings they had previously shared? Who knew. There was only one way to find out. He would need to either get out, or somehow trick the Organization into thinking that he was, indeed, on their side. Then he would break away, and hasten to where he _truly_ belonged. That Varth fellow had promised him amnesty, but had yet to fulfill that. How much longer would he need to endure that? Not that it mattered, really. At this point, his only aim was to survive.

Days turned into weeks, weeks to months. There was no letup in the intensity of his training, however as time drew on, he noted that his strength and agility had increased significantly. The use of his power was not as draining, and could be used for longer durations of time. Anabelle was finding it harder and harder to keep up with him; her only trump card against him was her ability to control _yoki. _He also noted that even though his own aura was not exavtly _yoma, _the properties thereof were similar, thus enabling Anabelle to control it, though with significatly more effort than normal. Nonetheless, every time Raki gained the upper hand, he was thwarted. His frustration only increased as time drew on. However, strangely enough, he found himself becoming less and less incensed by her taunting and the mockery of the other ranks. As time drew on, he began to realize that he was feeling...less. His mind and heart were becoming more numb to things that would otherwise have set him off. The anger that Anabelle had before said gave him power gradually gave way to a intimidating calm. The hazing, mocking, and harassing gradually gave way to hushed words, silent respect of space and position, and even a bit of admiration. An air of commandment floated about him as the female warriors parted or moved dutifully out of the path of what would seem to some the "alpha male." Time drew on, and he found himself somewhat at ease with this new found respect.

In due time, Raki's rank was made official, and his training deemed complete. He stood before the council, Varth at the center thereof, and awaited his first assignment. The elders were deathly silent in their thoughts. Varth was first to speak. The jovial nature that he normlly projected was absent, his face a mask of stark seriousness. The silence that pervaded within the walls of the audience chamber was deafening, a weight that bore down with awkwardness heavy enough to crush a man. At length, though, Varth spoke, saying, "You have trained with us for six months. All that we have to teach has been taught, but you are far from complete. You are Fourth in this Organization, and will remain so until the higher ranks are opened. The flesh, blood, and heart of a dragon have now become very much a part of you. Embrace it, accept it, for you must think and feel as your foes din order to fight them. To you is given the greater honor than any warrior that here exists: to fight against and annihalate the dragons and their kin on the mainland. You, Raki, are the culmination of centuries of trial and error. Your success in this war will turn the tide in our favor. You will embark on the voyage to the mainland within two weeks. Will you be prepared within that time frame?"

Raki nodded. "I will."

Varth nodded back, a gesture of approval. "Have you any further questions?"

"Yes: what was the intent of the Organization in falsifying the information regarding the operation?" His bold inquiry caused many of the elders to murmur amongst each other. Varth's usual personality seemed to return as he spoke. "It's the same as what information we reveal to the public: we wouldn't want them to go mad with fear. In your case, we didn't wish to drive you away, but bring you in. Your success will determine whether mankind will stay at war, or if they will fall. You, Raki, are our crowning achievement, and of yourself have gained experience beyond any human or hybrid that now exists. Be proud of yourself, lad. You will go far yet."

Raki nodded and saluted. With a return salute, Varth dismissed him. _Two weeks, then I fight dragons... Since when has that been intended? How long have these bastards been at it? _His unanswered questions would have to wait. At the present moment, he was under obligation. On his way out, he passed Anabelle, who had accompanied him. Leaning against the far wall, she seemed deep in thought. She was, however, not unaware of his presence.

"You're leaving. Aren't you?" Was it him, or did her voice carry with it a hint of despeation? Raki came to a stop as she continued. Her eyes were squeezed shut. "You _are _going to the mainland, aren't you? It's just as I feared. They perfect one of us, and before we can blink, they're gone. Why don't you refute their orders, question their motives?"

"For the same reason you don't. Why have you come?" He gave her no more than a glance over the shoulder at that.

That seemed to shock her. Her head snapped up, and her eyes flew wide. She gazed at him for several moments before speaking in a hushed voice, suddenly become vulnerable. "Don't you know...?"

Raki then felt a sudden pang of pity for her. Here she was, a Claymore, desiring to love as humans do (and not knowing how) - desiring _his _love - now attempting to confess her feelings to him. She was in danger of heartbreaking rejection. The moment passed, however, and he did not hesitate to respond. "Anabelle, it's a shadow and a thought that you love. I can't give to you what you seek; my heart lies in the hands of another." With that, he regained his tread, and left her there to contemplate his words.

Tears welled up in her silver eyes, and she suppressed a sob, those eyes squeezed shut, a pained grimace on her fair face. She pounded the wall behind her repeatedly, as one sob after another wracked her body. Soon, though, those tears ran hot with rage. Raising her head slowly, she let open her eyes once more. "Then you've signed your lover's death!" she swore, a wrathful oath to be fulfilled by any means. This Clare would meet her end in a most torturous way, then she would compel Raki's love until he gave it to her willingly. A grin of utmost malice spread across her face; bereft of human emotion, she was justified in her actions to regain but a portion. This Clare girl would suffer as none had ever. Thus, were the dark-spawned plans of spite set in motion. The worst part was that there could nothing resist it...


End file.
